One can hope to Dream
by Awhoha
Summary: Sherlock gets a new flatmate. John is married. What is going to happen? SherlockxJohn.
1. Chapter 1

**Forgive me for any grammatical mistakes! I watched the Sherlock Holmes movie for the fifth or sixth time (lost track) and saw the second installment in theaters so I decided to write a fic based on the films. Might make this into a series of chapters...Merry Christmas Everyone!**

The air accommodated a slight nip; a nip that didn't quite draw your attention; a nip that when you breathed your nose tingled but only just. A tall man dressed in fine leather shoes made his way across the cobbled streets, the faint click of a walking stick tapping with each second step. A bowler hat, one made of fine hard felt, tipped dangerously off center as it lay atop a head of fine sandy blonde hair. Intelligent blue eyes shone through thick light coloured lashes; eyes that flickered back and forth watching the animated streets of London. The man made his way to a flight of stairs, the heavy iron numbers reading 221B, and pushed open the solid wood doors. The entrance was decorated with a woman's touch; fine cabinetry, china, some manner of household plants and a few chairs scattered about. Large paintings hung from the wallpapered walls, their beady eyes watching the new arrival with a hint of familiarity.

The man wiped his shoes on the mat, the rainwater from the streets having followed him to his destination. The man sniffed, taking the stairs two at a time. A neatly trimmed mustache decorated his handsome face causing his charm to shine through; on many a man this would only cause inspection of a rather common nature.

Arriving in front of a large dark oak door, the man rapped his cane. He waited, a frown brewing when no answer was returned. He knocked again, more persistent this time.

"Ah Doctor Watson."

A woman dressed in her finest walked up the stairs, hands clutching at her skirts. She was an older woman, blonde hair pulled tight and held together with a silver pin. Her gaze held a sparkle but creases had formed around her eyes; creases that spoke of anxiety.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson. Is he in?" The man, Doctor John H. Watson, nodded towards the closed door. The woman, the land lady, wrung her hands as she peered at the questioned room.

"I haven't seen him leave, Doctor. I believe he's been in there all morning!"

John sighed, running a hand across his brow. He tucked his cane under his arm, his wrists deftly turning the brass knob. The door swung open with a squeaky groan. Daylight was hidden from view—heavy dark drapery hung from the vast windows. Suddenly a figure lept into view causing both the good doctor and the Mrs. to jump in surprise. The surprise turned to shock as Mrs. Hudson let out a cry of horror. John set his jaw firmly until the muscle twinged in irritation.

"Ah Watson. Nanny." Sherlock droned, dark brown eyes flickering over to the woman who was now open mouthed. John looked at the man, a Sherlock Holmes, who stood half naked wearing only a pair of black breeches. The consulting detective, the only one of his practice, poised before them covered in what appeared to be mud whilst smoking his pipe.

"Mr. Holmes! What are you dripping unto my floors?" Mrs. Hudson seemed to find her voice, a hand clutching at her chest in fright. Sherlock stared at her through a mud coated face, a look of insouciance upon his brilliant features.

"Moor mud: mud that has been extracted from deep within the earth- Watson do come in." Sherlock gripped his pipe before walking barefoot across the floors. "This compound contains over one thousand botanicals, minerals, enzymes, antibiotics and vitamins. Please take a seat, just move the various items out of your way would you, Watson?"

John glanced through the flat; dirty footprints danced about the cluttered room, smeared stains seeped through the various papers littering the fine furniture. Sherlock plopped down into a chair blowing smoke out his nostrils. Mrs. Hudson, unable to take the state of the room fled, slamming the door behind her. John rubbed his gloved fore finger across the bridge of his nose.

"Holmes—how long have you been here?"

"Moor mud, naturally does not agree with the human sense of smell, so I infused the mixture with salt, a hint of aromatic oils to better-"

"_Holmes_!"

"Three days." Sherlock said petulantly, eyes not meeting the Doctors. John, walking over to the windows and flinging the drapery wide to allow the sun to enter, tried not to sound infuriated as he turned his attention back to his former flatmate.

"You need to get out of the flat- you cannot stay cooped up in here." John gingerly removed from their resting place, a stack of books and quills from the opposite chair. He stretched out his feet, fingers flexing on the head of his cane.

"How is Mary? I am sure she is enjoying herself?" Sherlock averted the question, eyes roaming over the gold band encircling the good Doctors wedding finger.

"Mary is doing fine, but Holmes you need to stop avoiding and listen to me for once in your life. You need to go outside."

Sherlock pouted inhaling deeply. Smoke billowed out through his mouth filling the room with its sweet scent. He itched at his chest, pieces of caked mud escaping to the floor.

"Why are you here?" Holmes suddenly asked, brows drawing into a line. He placed a hand under head head, hardened muscles rippling underneath the moor paste.

"Can't I come and visit a friend? I would have assumed you would be glad to see me."

"You assumed correctly dear Watson, but it's been weeks since I last saw you. Marriage must have obtused your writing capabilities seeing as how you have forgotten to contact me."

"Don't, Sherlock. It was our honeymoon, of course I would have been busy with Mary."

"You could have sent a note."

"I was out of the country."

"Took Mycrofts suggestion to go to Switzerland then. Shame, I would have liked to go."

"It was _our_ honeymoon."

"_Our_ honeymoon?"

"Mary's and I." John huffed. Sherlock had a way of pressing his buttons in all the wrong places yet those buttons seemed to spark something inside of him.

"Would you care for a moor bath?" Sherlock rose suddenly, pipe in hand. His dark hair spiked all around his head giving him an overly eccentric appearance. Not that he wasn't peculiar enough as it was. "It really is quite refreshing. It reduces aches and pain, great for the skin. Rejuvenates the skin cells, maintains the human bodies chemical equilibrium. I must insist that you try it be a most beneficial experience."

John watched as Sherlock glanced out the window, eyes darting to and fro. Sherlock's eyes were beautiful; large almond orbs framed by long dark lashes. They shone with intelligence that threatened to consume his very existence, more so on occasion.

"I will have to decline your offer, Holmes. I would rather have hoped you would accompany me to the opera this evening." John rose, careful not to tred in any of the mud pies, remembering when Sherlock had first asked of the opera. The detective slowly turned to face him, a brief puff of the pipe illuminating his dark eyes.

"Don Giovanni?"

"Yes."

"Seven PM?"

"On the dot."

"Suit or no?"

"Suit."

Sherlock grinned against his pipe, arms crossed over the other. He cocked his head to the side, eyes alive with the fire John had always been drawn to; the mystery that burned in his very soul.

"It's good to see you Watson."

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

Sherlock stood watching as the Doctor hailed a carriage, disappearing into the black hansom. He sighed deeply to himself, teeth nibbling at the edge of the carved wood. His chest had clenched at seeing his dearest comrade once again; remembering those solid blue eyes, the quirk of his lips, the deep voice that penetrated to his very core. The detective sniffed, nose wrinkling deeply. No matter. Emotions of the heart were of no consequence. Rethink that. Emotions did not bode well for someone in his position. The man was married for Christs sake, even when he had done his best to sabotage the wedding. Not well enough as it would seem. Holmes turned his back to the window, eyes drawn to the mud filled tub.

As the clock chimed the hour, Holmes wiped the sweat from his brow, eyes shining with vigour. The room looked spotless. He had managed to rid himself of the excess moor concoction, persuading a fine young gentleman that he could make a fortune selling the mud to young women, as it would make their skin glow. Mrs. Hudson was more than happy to see the mud leave her premises much to the suspicion of Sherlock Holmes.

The detective glanced at the clock, downing a glass of whiskey. His skin now silken to the touch sought out the finest of his dress. A white silk shirt, a stripped tie, a dark blue overcoat and a pair or black trousers with red suspenders soon embraced his muscular build. Sherlock stared at his appearance in the mirror, his hair combed back revealing his stunning features. Solid high cheekbones with the hint of stubble housed his lustrous eyes. A full mouth set in a thoughtful line enhanced his facial beauty as the detective twitched back through the glass. This would have to do. Grabbing his riding crop, Holmes made his way out into the busy streets of London, a merry tune whistling under his breathe. He was going to see John once again.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

John Watson waited outside the opera house, his fingers itching at the base of his blue vest. He had just checked his pocket watch, the hand minutes away from seven. His wife, arms resting around his elbow, gazed up at him large eyes concerned.

"Why do you look so nervous John? I'm sure Mr. Holmes will be here shortly."

"It's almost the appointed hour, darling. I just hope that nothing has happened to him."

"What should happen to me, mother hen?" A voice answered. John turned to see Sherlock dressed in his finest, making way towards them. His unruly hair was combed neatly back, his handsome face for all those to see. John felt a glow in his heart at seeing the detective again. It really had been a while.

"I was beginning to worry, old chap."

"Nonsense." Sherlock waved a hand, the other hiding in his pocket. John noted that the man's riding crop was snug under his arm.

"Evening Mrs. Watson." Sherlock nodded at the blonde woman, trying his best to sound polite. He must have for she smiled back, her arm fitted around her husband.

"It is a pleasure to see you again Mr. Holmes-"

"No, no, the pleasure is all mine," Sherlock gave a mock bow. " Shall we?"

John nodded, motioning for the man to lead the way—Sherlock all but bounding up the stairs.

The opera house was a thing of beauty. Five stories of private seats soared up to the brightly painted ceiling. Below, in the vast pit, rested the musicians—the vast array of instruments shining in the dim light. Massive red velvet curtains hung from rungs, gracefully bending to trail along the stage. Holmes breathed in the scents. Soap; used to scrub the House clean after every performance. Cigar smoke; the faint sweetness arising from the boxes of gentlemen, cigars trapped between their thumb and index. Perfume; the gaggle of women walking past fans waving the heat away. Honey mixed with clove; the familiar scent of Watson. Sherlock licked his lips, feet rocking back, trying to ignore the flush creeping against his neck. John helped Mary into her seat, a box with a wondrous view of the world below, before taking his own. Holmes motioned for a lad to retrieve a bottle of liquor. Sherlock finally sat down, pulling out his spyglass.

"You really brought that with you?" John asked, a smile breaking out. Holmes gave a slight offended cough, and appeared to make a remark when the serving lad brought forth a bottle of whiskey. John glanced at it with disapproval to which Holmes ignored.

"Are you going to sit here and argue, my dear Watson or are we going to enjoy a night filled with Dissoluto punito, ossia il Don Giovanni?"

John was about to retort, but Mary placed a calming hand on his arm. Sherlock observed the movement with a slight of annoyance. He opened the drink, swallowing it as if it were water. John had to place an arm firmly, forcing Holmes to lower the glass.

"Please, keep this night civil, Holmes."

"Of course." Sherlock muttered, allowing the doctor to confiscate the whiskey. He twiddled his thumbs, tapped his riding crop all in the act of impatience. He was constantly aware of John's presence beside him, the man's heat brushing against his elbow. So he did what he knew how to do. Converse.

"Did you realize that Don Giovanni is one of the most performed operas; it is a fruitful subject so vast in its meaning. There are eight main roles: Don Giovanni, who I should state, is a young and extremely licentious nobleman; Leporello, his servant; Don Pedro; Donna Anna, betrothed to Don Ottavio; Don Ottavio betrothed to Doona Anna," Sherlock spoke his voice fast flowing. " Donna Elvira, a woman cruelly abandoned by non other than Don Giovanni; Masetto a peasant who in turn in engaged to Zerlina. A truly remarkable performance which begins in a D Minor then transforms into a light D Major allegro. Ah, quiet, it is about to begin," Sherlock voiced suddenly, pulling out his spyglass. John grinned, having missed his companions ramblings. Mary stared at Holmes, an astonished look on her face.

As the opera began, John watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. The man sat motionless, mouthing the words as he watched, eyes bright. The detective was thoroughly engrossed, allowing the doctor to quickly assess his friends current state. It seemed that he had been eating, maybe not everyday, but he had been consuming his dietary needs. He seemed to be in excellent shape, his body hard with chiseled muscle. John frowned in concern at some bruising under Sherlock's neck—presumably from the boxing area. A knot of familiar worry ate away at the doctor as he found more bluish markings around the man's wrists, unnoticeable from the mud bath prior. Had he really made the right choice in moving out? Had he rushed his marriage just as Mrs. Hudson had said? John chewed his lips in new found worry as the House filled with soprano.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

"Beautiful. Magnificent. Étonnant." Sherlock dug his hands in his pockets as they exited the opera. John had to agree. The performance had been remarkable. Sherlock suddenly spun on his heels, face inches from the doctor.

"Watson!"

"Holmes?" John all but spluttered, his eyes suddenly drawn to the detectives lips.

"The time! What is the time?"

"What for?" John asked, but reached into his pocket all the same.

"I can't be late," Holmes was muttering, riding crop over his shoulder, arms wrapped around both ends.

"Late for what? Holmes you're not making sense." John raised a brow, eyes reading the watch hands. It was almost eleven. Sherlock glanced down, his dark hair brushing against John's nose. It smelled of cigars and lavender; a curious mix, yet strangely alluring. John coughed, as Mary watch Sherlock with a strange expression.

"In all probability, he might , no- I should hope not; why should I?" Sherlock was muttering now, deep in thought. John lifted his hands, gripping his friend tightly around his broad shoulders.

"What are you saying?"

Sherlock broke out of his thought, dark eyes boring into Watson's. The doctor could see every detail in the man's face; a small scar above his cheek where he had been nicked in one of their cases, the fullness of his lips, the dark and light stubble.

"The new flatmate. He hates it when I linger, the old badger."

John felt an icy hand grip his spine as he stared at his friend. Emotions of a strange nature tumbled in his chest. He felt anger, loss, and a possessiveness that he had never experienced before. He had been Sherlock's flatmate, should be the only one, and now shortly after he had vacated, his friend had found someone to replace him.

" A flatmate." John stated dryly. Sherlock sniffed, his muscles flexing under his fitted clothes.

"How did you two meet?" John couldn't help but let a tiny amount of anger creep into the question more likely an accusation. Sherlock gracefully raised a dark brow in confusion at the offended tone.

"That I'm afraid mother hen, will have to be told over a cup of tea. I really must run. Mrs. Watson." With a nod he was gone, swallowed up by the crowd, leaving John standing still, emotions crashing like waves against sandy shores.

"John? You're staring."

"Sorry, my love. He just took me by surprise." John reassured his wife as he lead her into a carriage, his blue eyes stealing one last glance hoping to catch a glimpse of the dark haired detective. If it was a tale to talk over a cup of tea, John Watson intended to hear it to the very end. Tomorrow if need be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Another chapter up. Hurray! Enjoy :)**

**-Awhoha**

Sherlock Holmes fidgeted in his chair, a half-bored expression playing languidly across his features as his heart beat nervously. Dark chestnut locks swept up to the side on which the consulting detective had slept on the previous evening, the man rightly neglecting to tidy his hair. Full lips wrapped around the narrow bit of maple pipe, the tobacco burning restlessly in the chamber, the mans brown eyes fixated on the door. He sniffed, leg crossing over the other as he listened. A sound outside the flat greeted his ears: a limp followed by the simple thud of a cane, the unmistakable squeak of rich leather against the wooden floor. In a flurry of arms and leg, Sherlock lept up from his seat, briskly removing papers and various other objects that had taken over the room at a rather alarming rate. At the sound of footsteps verged outside the door, Sherlock dashed towards his chair, a hand quickly sweeping through the wrinkles in his clothes. He leaned back just as the door knob clicked, legs settling on the three legged stool before closing his eyes.

"Holmes?"

Sherlock remained unmovable, mouth casually dragging at his pipe in his grasp as the familiar voice of John Watson filled the flat. The footsteps drew nearer, the consulting detective twitching slightly. He heard the scrape of a chair being drawn forth, the movement of cloth—John had worn a new suit; the smell of new cloth and the odor of the shop still clinging to the fabric, the slight stiffness in the fluidity of movement. Sherlock peeked open an eye finding the doctor gazing down at him, a smirk playing behind his neatly trimmed mustache. Sherlock abruptly shut his vision, nose flaring in delight. His mind cataloged the doctor: tight fitting gray throw, periwinkle waistcoat followed by black neck tie holding a white silk shirt in place. Bowler hat, ornate cane, black leather gloves, dark breeches and leather brouge shoes—four holes for the laces, two tone.

"Holmes, I saw your eyes moving."

Holmes opened his eyes, both this time, and sniffed across at his friend.

"Watson." He puffed, a perfect smoke ring issuing into the room. John smiled at his friend. Sherlock lounged on the chair dressed in a white shirt buttoned to the small of his throat, a woolen scarf hanging casually around his broad shoulders. A set of dark gray breeches, the suspenders lying at his thighs, clung to his hips. A knock on the door announced the arrival of Mrs. Hudson, a tray of tea held in her hands. John stood respectfully as the landlady placed the tray on the fine wood table beside him, Sherlock giving her a twitch of a frown in distrust.

"Tea gentlemen." The woman stated, the tray meeting the wood with a soft clink. Warm buttery bread cut into thick slices sat next to the fine china, the smell of fresh cream and strawberry jam mixing in with the tobacco smoke.

"Thank-you very much, Mrs. Hudson." John gave a polite nod as she smiled up at him.

"It's a pleasure to see you again Doctor Watson." The landlady said. Turning to Sherlock who was eyeballing the tea with suspicion, she asked.

"Will Mr. Jefferson be joining you this morning?"

"Mr. Jefferson?" John inquired, trying to push the irritation from his mind. His eyes were drawn towards the extra cup, cursing himself for not having noticed earlier.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be,hum? Plotting your evil schemes, nanny?" the consulting detective said, voice rising at the last word. Mrs. Hudson seemed to roll her eyes, but left the two men alone, her tray of dirty cups clinking in the distance.

"Who is Mr. Jefferson, seeing as how you failed to mention his name sooner."

"The new flatmate." Sherlock was now picking at the strings of his violin, the dark wood waxed to a high gloss. His bare arms flexed as his fingers moved, producing random notes of music. The parrot squawked, John looking up to find the source of commotion. "Don't spare him a glance, dear fellow. He might swoop down and attack."

"Yes, I know the new flatmate, you mentioned him last night, but who _exactly_ is he?" John demanded impatiently.

"Just an old goat."

"Who exactly is an _old goat_, Holmes?" A deep voice broke in. John turned instinctively towards the interruption, heart hammering in his chest. The voice had spoken quite suddenly, startling the good doctor who almost spilling the tea in his hand, snapped his eyes towards the new arrival.

A man, taller than the doctor, leaned against the solid beams, a playful wink in his bright green eyes. He wore his black hair cut short, military John deduced, his handsome face without any hair. John was speechless as the man, clad only in a thin open shirt and a pair of trousers, sauntered over. John tried to keep the jealousy from clawing up his throat as the man, Mr. Jefferson, leaned behind the detectives chair.

"I'm addressing one at present," Sherlock muttered against his pipe, eyes traveling across the room.

"Won't you introduce me to your colleague?" The dark haired man smiled down at John in a friendly manner, the doctor's lips twitching in what seemed to him a grimace.

"Doctor John. H. Watson," John placed his beverage down, reaching out a hand. Common courtesy, nothing more. The mans grip was firm, something that caused the irritation to further press against his chest.

"Lieutenant Paul Jefferson. Holmes has spoken quite highly of you."

"A most invaluable companion," Sherlock interrupted rising a high note on the instrument. John felt his heart swell at those words, which had indeed been spoken before, but had never sounded so sincere as they did now. The sensation ruptured as quickly as it had formed, for the lieutenant reached from behind Sherlock and plucking the pipe from the detective's lips, something John had never attempted to perform.

"Old badger," Sherlock plucked the strings harder, eyes narrowing as the man emptied the pipe's ash in the fireplace. John raised a brow, trying to sort out these new turn of events and discovering that he didn't like it. Not one bit.

"Eat your breakfast, Holmes."

John watched with growing frustration as Sherlock (Sherlock never did as he was told) huffed but replaced his violin with a spot of bread laced with jam.

"You're eating." John managed trying to keep his voice under control as Sherlock licked the jam from his fingers. The detective gave his friend a blank stare, tongue sneaking out between his lumbrical. John felt a heat creep down into his abdomen, a blush rising in his pale cheeks.

"Are you living in London then, Doctor Watson?" the lieutenant asked, tearing John's gaze away from the man currently devouring the bread and jam.

"Yes. My wife and I have found a quiet home near the river Thames."

"Married then?"

"Yes. About half a year."

"Children?"

"No. Are you a family man, Mr. Jefferson?"

"Not for a long while, I hope."

John noted how those green eyes glanced towards Sherlock Holmes, how they lingered for a fraction too long. The doctors stomach flipped, his knuckles tightening on the hilt of his cane.

"Would you care to join us for lunch this afternoon, Doctor Watson?" Paul asked from the hearth, throwing a few more logs into the fire pit. " I would love to hear the tales—you were Holmes' biographer, or if you would allow, read some of your work."

" I must regretfully decline, I am meeting Mary this afternoon."

"Tea?" Sherlock disjoined rather rudely.

"No. We are going to look at furnishing for the new home."

" How pedestrian of you, Watson."

"Behave," Mr. Jefferson chastised, but it was more playful than demanding.

"How do you two meet, you and Holmes?" John probed, wanted answers as turned his conversation back to the lieutenant. Who exactly was this man to Sherlock Holmes?

"Its a rather intriguing story is it not, Holmes?"

"Most interesting," Sherlock agreed rather offhandedly, a handkerchief brushing the crumbs from his lips. The detective stood, walked over to John, a hand expertly snatching the doctors bowler atop his own head of dark locks. Sherlock glided to the window, brown orbs surveyed the aggressive streets below. His fingers tapped against his chest, without a steady rhythm .

"I was in London—an ex army lieutenant, looking for work, when I stumbled upon an article in the newspapers requiring young able bodied men to transport goods out of the city. I signed up-"

"A grievous mistake, old goat," Sherlock broke in earning a grin from the other man.

"I took the job but something didn't seem quite right-"

"The objects in question were highly dangerous materials being imported off from the Harbor, most sinister." Sherlock's finger drummed against his throat, mind deep in thought.

"I find my throat rather parched. Holmes, if you will." Paul grinned, as he took Sherlock's vacated chair, pouring himself a cup of the brew. John rested a hand under his chin, as Sherlock inhaled deeply.

"Right. As I was saying, most sinister. The cargo consisted of a most powerful chemical compound- aqua regia also know as royal water or kings water: an acid containing one part concentrated nitric acid and three parts concentrated hydrochloric acid. This chemical combination will attack most metals but most predominantly aurum or more commonly know to the masses as gold." Sherlock briskly walked to the back of John's chair, arms encircling the sides. John reached up, reclaiming his hat as Sherlock continued in a husky voice.

"Aqua regia dissolves gold, creating pure gold precipitate. It is a fine way of smuggling the metal—the gold contained in the acid causing it to resemble a common chemical which in turn can then be re-cast once extracted. John, is that a new cologne I sense on you- it doesn't suit you. Yesterdays was better, more.._you_ and not so_ female_. As I was saying, I was following a case, alone-" Sherlock's eyes drifted to John's briefly, giving off a highly offended sniff as the doctor squared his jaw rather tightly. " on the recent theft of gold jewellery. I followed a pair of shady goons- oh no need to look so concerned, Watson! I had my revolver. I believe, though can't quite recall, but no matter. I made my way to the Harbor to find myself in a situation."

"What situation, Holmes?" John asked, the breath of his friend close to his ear. He tried to keep the worry at bay, voice gently catching. He cleared his throat, blue eyes watching the lieutenant sipping his tea, green eyes observing Sherlock.

"A group of men fighting to the very death!" Sherlock bellowed, startling both men as he moved across the room, a sword suddenly in his grasp—most likely retrieved from under a pile of loose notes. John watched in amusement as Sherlock spun, blade slashing through the air, his foot work precise. John remembered that Sherlock had taken fencing lessons when still a child.

"I, seeing a fellow man in trouble jumped into the fray, saving not only the man before you, but managed to recover forty barrels of aqua regia and thus solving the case of the gold jewellery, not to mention bringing down a couple of high ranking mobsters in the process. Mr. Jefferson was in need of help, so I offered my assistance. He had been living in London, struggling to survive, and seeing as how my last flatmate abandoned me, I had a spare room available."

"I did not _abandon_ you Holmes!" John growled, blush rising forth once more. " I got married."

"_Tone_, Watson. You'll upset the bird." Sherlock pointed the sword at John, examining the blade as if it were the most riveting thing on earth. A knock on the door broke off any further argument that may have occurred.

"Come in," chorused both Paul and John, each giving the other a glance as the intruder opened the door.

"Mr. Jefferson, is Mr. Holmes in?" A man, an officer of Inspector Lestrade, leaned in the doorway, looking slightly out of breath.

"He is. What is the matter?" Paul asked, voice concerned. John felt the rush of how it was when he and Sherlock had been summoned for a case, the same energy now filling the room.

"There's been a murder, sir."

Sherlock looked up from his sword, the weapon now sorrowfully forgotten. John saw the fire burning within his eyes, the slight twist of his lips, the straightening of the consulting detectives spine.

"Or rather _murders_," Sherlock all but purred, the sound drawing every eye to him. The man grasped hold of his scarf, the wool warm to his touch. Holmes smiled widely, John finding the grin rather distracting.

"Murders? How could you _possibly_-"

"Your pitch is off key when you uttered the word murder, your eyes keep darting across the room as if hiding something. Not very adroit, are you, no. Your hand is trembling, sweat beading at your brow. You just arrived, not by foot- the hems of your trousers are still dry, clearly you haven't walked on the cobbled streets so you must have taken a carriage, do to the obvious fact that London was plagued by rain fall, so hansom or cab. You arrived in hast. A murder in London- something must be erroneous; wrong; dreadfully most dreadfully wrong for you to be here at my door."

The man gaped at the detective, his hands wringing nervously.

"Tell me, is he right?" John pressed, addressing the officer..

"Indeed he is, sir."

"The nature of these unfortunate incidents? No, wait, don't tell me!" Sherlock rushed to grab a sheet of paper, spilling ink over a set of books in his urgency. " Write the address down. We shall follow right behind you."

"We?" John asked, prepared for another discussion about how they had worked their last case together, though John madly hoped his friend would ask for his company and assistance. He glanced at the officers scrawled handwriting, before looking back up into the brown eyes that shone like stars.

"Myself and Mr. Jefferson. We wouldn't want to keep you from your tea with Mary."

"Shopping." John cut in, his chest strangely hollow. He watched as Jefferson pulled on a coat, hurriedly fastening his buttons. Sherlock ran to and fro, gathering his possessions, oblivious to John's state of turmoil. "Surely you are in need of some assistance."

Sherlock paused to regard the doctor, his eyes unreadable, just like the man himself.

"Don't you have other pressing matters to attend to?" Sherlock catechized. His heart was beating wildly in his breast; having John's eyes boring into his own. He felt tingles run across his back, felt the sweat from at the nape of his neck. He didn't moved, didn't dare break the stare from icy blue. Sherlock felt the hurt itch, his heart reminding him of John stating he wanted nothing to do with any future cases. Yet here he was, in his flat, wanting to follow.

"No." Came the reply.

"Tea?" The retort echoed back.

"Shopping. I still have a few hours." John straightened, trying to appear unaffected by Sherlock's words. They stared at each other for what seemed a life time, before Sherlock sighed, waving a hand in the air.

"Do as you like." The detective muttered. John tried to smile, but a frown formed in its stead. He was not wanted? He shook the feeling off as the men bustled out of 221 Bakerstreet, vanishing into the brisk London city.


	3. Chapter 3

**WOW Thank-you all you fabulous people! I got home and _bam_, all these wonderful emails filling my inbox. It made my day so thank-you very much! Another chapter up and ready. I am making Lestrade a bit of a dashing fellow since I didn't like the actor so much so I am making him my own creative on looks...Sorry for any grammatical mistakes/chemistry + Chemical information (as I am not really knowledgeable in that area.)**

**-Awhoha**

The carriage swayed, the clatter of hooves clicking on the wet cobbled stones; the startled neigh of the horses mixing in with the rowdy crowds—the voices of the paper boys screaming in the streets. The four men sat, two on each side, as the driver outside whipped the flanks urging the beasts on. Sherlock sat, back as straight as can be, fingers fumbling with his buttons while John rested beside him, the warmth of the detective's thigh grazing his own. John observed the detective struggle, finally giving a frustrated sigh. Resting his cane against the cab's side, the doctor reached out with gloved hands, the buttons easily sliding into place as the dark jacket closed over the man's white shirt. Sherlock's vision fluttered towards the window the outside world rapidly paramount as John's hands finished the last button.

"Presentable," John spoke, taking it upon himself to straighten the white collar hugging the strong neck.

"Yes, yes, Watson. Thank-you." Sherlock's fingers itched at his throat, his fingers tugging open his white collar further, the carriage suddenly to warm for his liking. John's cerulean stare dropping to his exposed skin—slight stubble on soft tan skin, a few pale scars dipped towards his collarbone.

"Do you have my pipe?" Sherlock asked, breath fogging the window. Paul inclined his bowler clad head, his green eyes focused on the consulting detective. "No- left behind in the commotion, no doubt. Be on your toes next time, old goat."

John watched the exchange with unsettling perturbation. Next time?

"You solve cases with him." John stated, his voice expressing no emotion as he focused hard on the man sitting across from his own person. Sherlock eyed his friend, dark brown orbs tinged with flecks of gold.

"Is that so hard to believe, mother hen?"

"Mother hen?" Paul raised a brow, a quirk forming. "You have a way with nicknames, Holmes: _mother hen, old goat_. Dare we find one for yourself?"

Sherlock ignored the lieutenant, rotating so that he was sitting facing the good doctor, and spoke in a most refined tone.

"After you abnegated yourself from my side—"

"This, _again_?"

" I—having no one for _months_, find it considerably conductive to have someone to which I can rely on while cultivating my cases. Mr. Jefferson is most _accommodating_."

"Is he?" John bristled.

"Your complaining."

"No I'm not. How am I possibly complaining?"

"You complain about everything I do and for your information, my dear Watson, I do believe we have had this conversation before, most vividly I recall, being locked up in a prison cell surrounded with horribly humdrum companions." Sherlock tapped his nose, tone obnoxiously irritating. John was about to retort but the carriage halted suddenly; Sherlock reaching out—one hand smearing across the window while the other blindly griped John's front coat, that the doctor, finding heat press against his breast, felt the words die in his throat. The fairer haired man felt a blush rise through his neck, ears most possibly scarlet.

"We're here, gentlemen." The officer announced, clearly relieved that they had arrived at the appointed destination. Sherlock mutely removed himself from the horse drawn method of transport, a hand sweeping though his hair. John hastened to follow, standing tall beside his friend.

"I apologize, Holmes. Everything has _changed_—I was rather taken by surprise."

"Apology accepted." John saw the smile curve, eyes twinkling like stars. "Just hope your cleverness has not dulled, Watson—we wouldn't want London's finest doctor losing his touch now would we."

"Never."

As the rest of the passengers exited the carriage, the officer lead them across the street, the rain dampening their heels, splattering the hems of their pants. Sherlock nictated, the entire street under his scrutiny as they passed the police enforces, their shiny black hats standing out against the pale stone.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

"Strange."

"Indeed, Watson. Most extraordinary."

"There appears to be no physical marks upon the body; no bullet holes, no knife wounds, no strangulation."

"Obvious."

"They're all-?"

"Yes, Jefferson. Bereft of life; deceased; departed; pushing up daises."

"Sherlock."

"What, old chap?"

"Show some respect." John pursed his lips, eyes intent on observing the bodies, lying motionless in the fine leather armchairs. Sherlock, giving an offended shake of his hand, bent low to sniff at one of the corpses. Paul meanwhile, was observing the study. A beaker of water rested on an old oak table, along with some assorted documents and quills. The study was furnished with a mantle, large fireplace, books and binders filled with handwritten notes. A large grandfather clock chimed in the corner, the fine carvings finishing the room with a flare of elegance.

The officers stood by the doorway, one in particular watching the consulting detective with a guarded was tall, well toned with slight graying hair. His handsome face was disturbed, blue eyes hooded as he leaned against the frame, arms crossed over his untidy uniform. The man was of medium height, high cheekbones, skin bordered on tan as he spent much time outdoors, and dark of hair to which he wore in a tangled mess of locks.

"They were found early this afternoon. The maid was to bring tea into the study and found them stone dead at precisely twelve o'clock. " The man stated, earning a glance from Sherlock.

"Do we know the identity of victims, Lestrade? Judging by their fine clothes, expensive brandy, rounded gut, sweet yet pungent aroma: _Colorado Claro_—medium brown, English Market. 120 – 140 milligrams of carbon dioxide, 60 milligrams carbon monoxide, three milligrams isoprene and other various organic compounds. Cigars, English made. Business men of high stature."

"Secretaries of one of the most flourishing banks in London. " Inspector Lestrade supplied, a touch of awe in his voice as Sherlock stepped back from the body. "Do you know how they died?"

"It seems they died of severe liver poisoning." John peered into the hollow eyes, regarding the faint yellowing of the skin. "To how they died so quickly- that I have no idea."

"Cigars."

"Holmes?"

"It was the cigars."

Everyone turned to the detective, now leaning out the wide open window, in danger of plunging below. Lestrade glanced at the doctor who blinked, unsure as to how the man had reached the conclusion.

"Come away from the window, Holmes, and pray, tell what is on your mind." The doctor ordered, heart thudding in his chest as Holmes faced them, body still leaning back, fingers clutching the white window panes.

"Must I repeat myself, it is so very dispiriting. The _cigars_. As I inhaled the smoke lingering around the study I noted the familiar odors; carbon diooxide and monoxide, the isoprene and other organic compounds. However I did notice the faint scent of _N_-Nitrosodimethylamine: a highly toxic organic chemical. It acts as a poison to the liver; is colorless, weak tasting, and faint of smell. It is used in tobacco smoke, though in measured amounts. Cigars made with nitrosamines; it is what the toxin is branched from, are relatively harmless and when smoked, odorless. Having detected the N-Nitrosodimethlamine, I was immediately suspicious of the cigars being poisoned and present for one purpose."

"Murder." The Inspector finished, looking down at the poor victims.

"Now the question: Why want these men dead?" Sherlock muttered, lost in thought. He pushed himself off the window sill, striding past the Inspector, yelling up towards the stairs.

"Anything, old goat?"

John, realizing that the man had been vacant from the study, followed the footsteps of the detective up a flight of stairs,the shadow of Lestrade close by. The three men burst forth from a door located to the side of the building, leading up to the roof. The group was greeted by sunshine, a thin mist of rain beginning to fall. Paul stood by the edge, looking down into the overcrowded streets.

"Our killer was in the room when the men died." Jefferson said, hands shoved in his pockets. His green eyes shone like green peridots, rain drops clinging to his lashes.

"How do you know?" Lestrade barked, both he and the doctor staying far enough away from the ledge. Sherlock took a spot by the lieutenants side, one foot lifting over the edge.

"He jumped the roof."

"He did."

"The ladder?"

"Most certainly."

"Excuse me, but could you include us in your private conversation?" John all but shouted.

"There was an extra set of footsteps in the study, slightly made out by the water on the floor. There were four gentlemen murdered, yet five set of prints. Specks of muddied water ran up the stairs—I followed and they led me to the roof."

"The ladder?" John managed to keep his voice steady. The other man was smart. This irritated John to no end.

"As we made way to the building, I noticed the rooftops were almost parallel to one another: a man could easily jump to and from the buildings. The ladder- see there? is leading up or down on that building. The killer could have easily climbed up without being noticed by the passing crowds. " Sherlock gestured across, brown eyes gleaming.

"Can we take the documents from the scene and examine them, Inspector?" Paul inquired, turning away from the ledge. Lestrade nodded, pulling his coat tighter around his body—trying hide his disarray of dress so it seemed.

"Find out, Inspector where these cigars are manufactured, who sells them. I want every shop in London written up on a list if need be. A killer who strikes with poisoned cigars. Most entertaining. Most entertaining indeed."

"Entertaining? Holmes! These men are dead."

"One must fine the excitement in every form of life, or life would be utterly devoid of any adventure."

"These men have families!"

"No time for sentiments, my dear doctor. Will weeping for the dead bring them back to life? No. Well, then, carry on!" Sherlock promptly sauntered off, disappearing down the stairwell.

"God I hate him," John breathed, cracking his neck, his hat tipping to the side.

"He certainly is one of a kind, but not one to hate." Paul chuckled, falling in step with the fairer man as they followed the consulting detective.

"His behavior doesn't drive you to madness?"

"No, I would go so far as to say I rather fancy it."

John faltered in his step ( he blamed his cane for snagging in a unseen crack in the stone) his heart thrashing wildly as the statement caught him entirely by surprise. _Fancy_:_to take a liking to; exceptional appeal in someone or something._The leather gloves squeaked as they tightened around the handle, the doctors blue eyes like clear beads of ice. They made their way down, cane clattering, to the hall finding the detective sitting on the floor.

"You alright, old friend?" John asked, a hint of worry in his voice.

"Yes. Yes, everything is amicable. I find the outlook of the world far different when sitting further down; a whole new perspective on our every day activities. Now, quickly we must gather the documents and with all haste, transport to the flat."

"Do you think there might be something important hidden in all of those notes?" John asked, cane pointing to the bundles of papers in the officers arms as they carried them out to an awaiting carriage.

"Fancy reading?" Sherlock grinned, a playful gleam in his gaze. John narrowed his eyes, knowing that smile to be most devious.

"On occasion."

"Super bonne."

"English, Holmes, if you would be so kind."

"Excellent in to which you most graciously volunteered to be our most avid reader."

"What? To reading all of those? You must be joking...no...you're not joking are you."

"Does this face ever joke, Watson?"

"I cannot Holmes, reading that will take all night."

"We have all night."

"I have to meet Mary."

"Tell her something came up; you sprained an ankle or such nonsense."

"Don't be utterly ridiculous. I cannot lie to my wife, Holmes."

"Of course you can, Watson. Most men lie to their wives multiple times a day, maybe even more."

"'I'm not like most men." John straightened, as Holmes observed, a quirk of his lips. The detective let out a disgruntled noise, itching at his jaw line. "I'll come by the flat later on." The doctor tried to reassure the detective, his thoughts now elsewhere.

"Tea with Mary, I understand is far more important."

"Shopping." John sighed, tone tired. Did Sherlock ever listen? "It is important, as she is my wife and I cannot spend every waking hour with you. "

"Pity."

"Holmes."

"_Hmmm_?"

"I said I will be back, I promise."

"Then by all means, good fellow. Let me not keep you- I wish you luck with your tea escapade."

"_Shopping_." John shot out jerkily, but seeing the playfulness, the doctor let out a chuckle. He smacked the detectives knee with the end of the cane as he made his way to the door, nodding goodbye as he hurried down the cobbled stones, the sun warming his tall figure. Sherlock pouted, ignoring the slight sting to the tibial tuberosity. He felt a sadness prod at his heart, its chilled fingers brushing gently against his chest. He sniffed, turning his attention to the cab. He ducked inside, Paul already leafing through some loose sheets.

"221B Baker Street, my good man. Double time if you will." Sherlock shouted out to the driver. The carriage lurched forward, the hooves rhythmically in time to the grate of the wheels against the pebbled road.


	4. Chapter 4

**Wow what a day. I have been so busy with work, boxing, and trying to figure out my stupid laptop. I got a malware on my machine and managed to kill it, but now I have to search for the .exe file every time I want to open a bloody program with no idea on how to fix it and no money to bring it to a pro. So sorry that I haven't updated in a while and it might be a bit for the next update as well. Thanks for all the reviews and favorites everyone! Enjoy this chapter too.**

**-Awhoha**

John Watson nimbly maneuvered through the bustling streets, his footsteps lost amidst the bustling crowds. Children giggled, pressed up against the shop windows, their small fingers pointing at their newest favorite. Men walked about with their women about their arm, dressed in their finest attire—silk dresses adorned with lace, hats decorated with ribbon and colourful feathers. The West End of London was alive with people eager to spend coin; metal bells rung loudly clattering against the doors of shops, the scuffle of feet against stone, the calls of bartering. The doctor hastened along Bond Street, a piece of scratch paper clutched in his hand, the other glancing down at his pocket watch all the while trying to avoid the bumping into the masses. John cursed and with a click shoved the watch back into his vest pocket. He was late; of course he was late. No matter what he did to try and arrive on schedule, if it involved working a case with a said Sherlock Holmes, the timing would be most re-missed.

A large building covered with generous windows stood impressively across the street, a metal sign reading Thompsons and Ackles Appliances. The fair haired man jogged across the street, the address crushing in his gloved palm, trying to avoid the wheels of impatient hansoms. Pushing open the heavy glass doors, John was engulfed in a world of leather, wood and perfume. Ladies with bright plumage, flounced petticoats and billowing skirts walked around chattering about the merchandise on show. Husbands followed behind, fingers lazily tracing over their watches hidden in their pockets. The good doctor, in search of his wife Mary, walked around the wooden tables of cherry, oak, and maple. His intense blue gaze fell upon one such woman; fair of hair, rosen cheeks flush with youth and blessed with azure eyes, focused on a set of dark cabinetry. White lace lay upon her slender throat, a dark blue dress wrapped around her form while a set of silken roses entwined with pearls mingled with her golden curls. A flutter swooped in through the man's heart as he strode near, smiling in apology as she turned, whipping a gloved hand over his chest.

"I am terribly sorry, Mary. I lost track of time, I got involved with a case-"

"I thought you were finished with such things?" Mary Watson told, wrapping an arm around the doctors forearm. Her tone was gentle but held a soft frost. "Did Mr. Holmes-"

"Holmes didn't force me, my love. My medical skills were needed so I found myself at their disposal."

"Will you be offering your services often, Doctor Watson," Mary quirked a delicate brow. She disliked it when her husband associated himself with cases pertaining to Sherlock Holmes. The man was a source of constant danger. "When we married you told me you were walking away from such a life."

"I assure you that this mornings events were purely circumstantial. Let us leave such topics, we're here to shop are we not?" John felt his heart do a quick flip. It had seemed like an empty promise to stay away; rather a stupid thoughtless decision made on the spur of a moment. How can he possibly—No. Now was not the time to think of such matters. He shrugged off the thought—he was here with his wife; not with Sherlock.

"Yes," Mary smiled, fingers squeezing gently. "Shopping it is."

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

Sherlock watched the ceiling, almond eyes half lidded, his mass of unruly locks resting upon the tiger rug that lay covered with scattered notes. His legs were crossed, feet bare as he tapped his riding crop against his chest. He hummed while fingers drummed in rhythm. His suspenders fell loosely at his hips, his white shirt open to reveal a muscular torso, hard planes, and the dip of the iliac crest.

"Holmes, must you hum- I am trying to read aloud, unless I am to rest my voice?"

Sherlock rolled his head back, brown eyes narrowing as Paul Jefferson set aside the loose notes. In a swift movement, the riding crop was positioned at the throat of the taller man who was currently residing next to the detective.

"Rest? There is no time for rest, Jefferson. Don't you see, it is almost evening? There is a killer on the loose, murdering- oh there could be more. Do you think there will be more? Wait no. How _utterly_ foul to ponder such thoughts. We are not allowed to rest. Carry on."

" These scribbles crave another voice." Paul stated, his voice raspy from talking. Sherlock frowned, whip cracking back towards the ceiling while his flatmate stared back down at him.

"Do you think Mrs. Hudson- no, absolutely not. That nanny would find some way to sabotage the evidence from me, that will never do. Carry on, old goat."

"You could take a go at it."

"Me? No. Far to busy."

"Doing what?"

"Thinking. Now ask no more questions."

Paul leaned back on his palms, studying the man lying before him. His green eyes drifted down the exposed skin, the slight traces of hair leading down through the waist band of the consulting detectives clothing.

"Will you be going to the ring this evening?"

"I haven't decided. Now if you have the energy to voice pedestrian thought, you shall carry on with the narrative." Sherlock sniffed, earning an eye roll from the man beside him.

"I'm done this section." Paul declared, lifting the sheets that he had just discarded. "I would rather like to call it a -"

"There's plenty to go around."

"There all on _your_ side."

"You have arms; use them—which bring me to the construction of the arm. Did you know, Jefferson that the arm consists of five major muscles? The flexors: coracobrachialis; the biceps brachii; and the brachialis as well as the extendors: triceps brachii and the anconeus."

"The Latin term for arm is _bracchium, _in case you thought I didn't know." Paul pushed himself off his palms and leaned over Sherlock, one arm brushing over the exposed abdomen, a playful smile pulling the corners of his mouth. The other was braced by his the detective's head, the back of the lieutenants hand nestling with the dark hair. Long fingers searched near the man's hips, grabbing at the bound sheets that lay beneath. Paul's thumb ghosted over the strong bone, Sherlock's brown eyes still staring up at the ceiling. A slight tremor ran across the man's spine at the slight contact, his brain automatically supplying any form of further material.

"Yes. You are quite right, however, the word bracchium could also stand for the limb of an animal; a claw or tentacle. The branch of a tree, the-"

"The arm of a catapult, perhaps."

Both men; Sherlock tilting his head back to face the door, Paul—still leaning over Sherlock in what would seem a provocative way ( oh and how), gave their full attention to the man standing straight in the door frame, hand gripping his cane tightly.

John Watson could feel the blood draining from his fingers ; glad to have the leather covering his fists. His icy blues were fixated on the scene before him, brain deducting the state of manner Holmes was in: sprawled on the floor swallowed by a sea of paper; shirt unbuttoned; bare footed; Mr. Jefferson leaning audaciously over the detective; skin contact.

"Ah Watson, do come in, old fellow. Thought you wouldn't make it judging by the hour, old boy."

"Would you rather I hadn't?" John persed his lips together tightly, closing the door with unnecessary force. He felt his side twist as Jefferson lazily pulled back from atop his dear friend, a booklet of notes in his hand. Paul sat back, green eyes shining like emeralds.

"How did the shopping go;_ eventful_? Was it the dining set or the couch? Or was it both?" Sherlock asked ignoring John's comment, his position still anchored to the tiger. "Both. Cherry wood accented with another, can't quite place it."

"Cherry and ash." John made no move to further advance into the flat, his eyes boring holes into Sherlock. Did the man feel no sense of shame? If it had been anyone, anyone other than the doctor, rumors would be flying all over London. Was being found in such a situation no large matter?

"Would you like a drink, Doctor Watson?" Jefferson asked, pointing to a half filled glass resting by his side.

"Yes, if you wouldn't mind." John nodded stiffly. If it would mean that the man removed himself from Sherlock's side, then he would indulge himself in a spot of brandy. The taller man grinned and stood, making his way over to a side table filled with a crystal beaker and glasses. "How did you know, Holmes?"

"About the cherry? Elementary, my dear Watson. The slight tone finish on the cuff of your jacket—you must have moved the sets into your new home causing a smear; a new furnished dining set, hence the new coat of pigmented stain. The smell of the cherry mixed with the satin toned lacquer, commonly used with cherry wood is still clinging to your clothes. You must have been thoroughly engaged to such a degree that you lost track of time; evening is almost upon us." Sherlock studied John, reliving the giddy feeling that rose in his gut whenever he peered into those eyes—eyes resembling the most untouchable seas. John had spent the day with his wife. Of course his wife. Mary Morstan—now Mary Watson on shopping. Shopping of all things. For their home. The detective shivered, blaming the sudden draft from the door, jealousy not proving to be one of his finest suites. He diverted his gaze from the doctors throat; a small brown bruise barely distinguishable above his collar, hating his traitorous heart.

John picked up his cane, crossing over the mess and sat down in the welcoming chair facing his friend. He allowed himself a smirk as Jefferson took the seat opposite, leaving Sherlock lying alone on the floor. The brandy—calvados; a rich apple liquor from the French region of Normandy, tasted rich of pear and apple with a brutal tang. John swirled the red mahogany liquid in the glass, the taste welcoming.

"Mary was most insistent."

"Woman always are, are they not?" Sherlock drawled with a flick of the crop. He gracefully pushed himself into a sitting position, legs folding underneath, eyebrow disappearing into his mess of hair. Breathe. Steady. Calm. The detective plastered on a smile, reading the doctors emotionless visage.

"Now that I am here, what shall I do? Any advancement on the case?" John's tone was neutral even thought his heart floated like a giant iceberg floating on precarious waters. "Seeing the state of the notes, you must have found some evidence."

"Not a thing." Paul sighed, rubbing his temple. " I have been reading for hours and not a damn clue."

"So a dead end." John dead panned. "Any news from Inspector Lestrade?"

"He sent a telegram that the list will be here tomorrow morning."

"So we just sit here and wait?" John tapped the tip of the cane, his leather shoe- shined to perfection, pressing against the oriental carpet. A screech cut the air like a knife, Sherlock's parrot flying in from the opposite room; the bedroom. It flapped its brightly coloured feathers, landing atop the mess of dark hair. Sherlock bolted up, shouting profanities. The parrot quite delighted by the racket, laughed before sinking down once again; this time on the man's shoulder. Sherlock beheld the bird with utter contempt.

"I should have you stuffed."

John couldn't help himself—Paul following, as the room filled with laughter. The consulting detective looked rather comical: a parrot nested on his shoulder, its head bobbing to and fro; hair sticking on end as if struck by electricity; large brown eyes narrowed; clothing askew.

"Écouter Holmes. Écouter Holmes!" The bird fluffed it's green feathers, beady eyes seeking approval from it's owner.

"It speaks?" John giggled, as Sherlock rose, bird refusing to budge.

"It does. Annoying thing, never ceases its belligerent rabble." The detective shot a look at the two men, who were wiping the tears from their eyes. "I blame Jefferson."

"You said you _wanted_ a pet."

"Yes a _pet_. However a bird is not a suitable companion. Can I preform experiments, test my theories? No. I cannot." Sherlock's voice rose, the bird nibbling his earlobe.

"You got him a parrot? What ever for?" John said, placing the brandy down. He raised a brow at Paul, genuinely curious.

"Holmes was going on about missing, Gladstone was it? Yes, the bulldog, and so on one day I came across a seller in the market wanting to rid himself of the bird. I thought of Holmes, who seemed delighted when I brought it home." John bristled slightly at the word home. Paul didn't notice the flinch as he was focused on the detective who had abandoned his crop, pipe now twirling in his grasp.

"Hardly. Hes a nemesis." Sherlock sniffed, searching for a light. " Has anyone seen my matches? Ah, Jefferson, hidden them again have you?"

"Its because you smoke like a chimney." Paul argued, sighing as Sherlock made way to the fireplace. The dark haired man reached into the fire with a set of tongs, extracting a burning coal. Using the ember to light his pipe, Holmes deeply inhaled the tobacco shooting his flatmate a look of triumph. John smiled noting the the sense of irritation on the lieutenants face.

"Will you both be joining me this evening?" Holmes puffed shaking the bird off his shoulder; the parrot sorrowfully flying to the top of a solitary cabinet. John's eyes immediately went to the thin red markings on his friends skin, the birds claws leaving noticeable markings. "I think it's high time for a bout in the can't progress on the case till morning, so a night out then, gentlemen."

"A fight would be welcoming." Paul grinned, rising from his seat, the doctor downing his drink. If Jefferson was to conform, John was not about to left behind.


	5. Chapter 5

**Another up and ready! Sorry for spelling ;)**

**-Awhoha**

Sweat. Transpiration. Diaphoresis. Fluid consisting of water, dissolved chlorides; allowing the body to regulate temperature. Sherlock Holmes grinned, almond eyes focused, breathing labored. The man shifted on the balls of his feet, fist resting on his right cheek, as cool air mixed with sweat down his back. His spine tingled, the roars of the crowd castigating down. Men dressed in thick woolen coats, dirty handkerchiefs dangling about their throats, surrounded a circular en-closer filled with dirt and sand. Arms waved about wagers while bowler clad men shouted, feet kicking at the wooden barrier. The heavy smell of whiskey and odor permeated the arena which many chose to ignore—their attention magnetized to the two men below.

The detective spun- left leg stepping, right swinging as his opponent came in with a jab, mouth turned in a snarl. The larger man howled, twisting his hips and set a right hook across to the smaller males head. Sherlock, using force reserved in his thighs, dove low bringing a series of three opposing punches to the sterratus anterior; three four three. A fist clipped the smaller male as he pivoted, bellows rising from the stands. Sherlock sniffed, backing off, the white bandages entwining his knuckles a dreary gray. His shoes dug into the earth, breeches clinging to his legs like vines. His bare chest, glistening with beads of sweat, rippled with power as he moved. He focused then, lashes thick over his observant gaze.

_Opponent: between thirty nine to forty five; pulled latissimus dorsi and bruised serratus—appropriate muscular points for discomfort; nose broken once- no twice before—psychological instinct to guard face; unseasoned fighter—movements sloppy and slow, more for show and coin than proffesional pursuance; two dogs—course black and white hair clinging to left pant bottom; smokes—stains along the fingernails and corners of the lips; now favoring left leg—tibia, no the tibial tuberosity damaged due to kick occurring ten minutes prior._

Holmes rotated his arm, fingers briefly massaging the tight muscle. The bulkier male charged thinking the man momentarily distracted, failing to witness the sudden shine in the brown eyes, the straightening of spine, and the hint of a smile Sherlock Holmes allowed to escape.

_First, feign left jab followed in strong with right uppercut to digastric anterior, then left hook to latissimus dorsi; aiming for ribs. Step forward, crack both metatarsals and phalanges; three to twelve weeks of recovery. Retreat, block incoming double jab and deliver chasse bas—seven hundred pounds to the knee; allow five second recovery. Retaliate with a blow to the trapezius momentarily stunning the opponent. Leg sweep combined with side kick—sixteen miles per hour; four hundred and fifty pound of force. Conclusion: broken right foot, torn ligaments in left fibula, slight concision, serious bruising to torso and ribs—chance of one or two cracked. One month to recover._

The detective moved with speed, delegating his strikes with accuracy, the crowds emotions climaxing as their voices echoed off the walls. The brute of a man went down with the final blow, a look of confusion mixed with pain milling his features as he groaned, no longer able to fight. Sherlock raised his arms as the men pounded the walls of the ring, some in victory others in anger. His brown eyes sought out two men as he made his way out, leaving behind the man still lying on the ground; men rushing over to help him to his feet.

John Watson watched while the toned planes of muscle moved forth in confidence, the consulting detective covered in sweat. With his dark hair plastered to his forehead, thin drops of sweat coating his skin, made Sherlock's appearance all the more intriguing. Finding his eye lingering downwards across the vast expanse, John cleared his throat, offering the man his jacket. Sherlock ignored him, reaching for his nights winnings and his bottle of wine.

"You were playing with him, Holmes."

"Whatever do you mean Jefferson? Playing technically is a term used in describing the acts of children. I don't care for the jacket, Watson."

"Then it fits you perfectly—you act like a child." John frowned, grabbing the wine from his friends grasp.

"I say, old boy." Sherlock grumbled, reaching for his drink. "Must you be so hounding?"

"Thoughtful."

"Heckling."

"Considerate."

"Vexing."

"Caring. The jacket, _now_."

They paused, Sherlock finally letting out a long drawn out sigh, allowing himself to slip into the offered article of clothing. Hot skin brushed against black leather gloves that was the doctor, the man grateful it held back the sinful touch. Sherlock turned, palm open in asking for his beloved wine. Once back in his possession, Sherlock bit the cork, the two companions catching a glimpse of tongue. The red liquid trickled down the corners of Sherlocks mouth as he delighted in the bitter sweet taste.

"Do I have something wrong with my countenance, my dear fellows?" Sherlock sniffed, wondering why both men were gazing so intently. " You both seem so curiously enraptured."

"Debating whether or not to snatch the object before me—seems a bloody shame let such tempting wine out of my sight." Jefferson replied, voice smooth as silk. If it is wine you are truly inferring John thought, a vile taste building up towards the back of his throat. He coughed, grip tightening on his walking stick.

"The wine is mine, old goat. Win your own battles and divulge in your own poison and not come begging for mine."

"Prude."

"I think not! I'll- hold that thought." Sherlock muttered, inhaling a deep breath. Unceremoniously the dark haired detective thrust the opened bottle at Jefferson's chest and took off, turning back towards the crowed arena. John called out Sherlock's name, hasting after the man. The lieutenant shrugged and took a long sip from the bottle before following his flatmate and the doctor.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

"Do you have any consideration for others, Holmes?" John wheezed as the three men stood outside the busy streets, the moon high in the sky. Paul muttered an agreement, his hand smearing the sweat from the back of his neck. "Will you be so kind and tell us what you are doing!"

Sherlock rocked on his heels, hands crossed over his chest, jacket pulled tight across his back. Brown eyes resembling chocolate blinked back at the doctor who glared back, his breath lost to the night.

"Emanation."

"Sorry, what?"" John drew his jacket closer to him as if trying to trap in the heat. The city was nippy during the evenings, their breathes barely visible as they stood shifting side to side.

"The emergence or discharge of spicy to cream flavors of solid wood that continues to build to a marvelously full flavored, complex smoke with a tantalizing sweet yet pungent aroma. Colorado Claro, my dear fellow. A man smoking the very same cigar as were the ones in the crime scene; this one however not deadly in its making. I followed the smell through the unruly crowds, out the back door and into the streets where we now stand. The aroma has been lost for we stand here now, twiddling our thumbs and standing around like idiots."

A thick fog was beginning to roll through the streets of London allowing the many lampposts to cast strange yet remarkable lights throughout the city. John Watson grinned, muttering a brilliant as he shifted his weight once more. Paul coughed slightly, Sherlock's head snapping in his direction.

"Jefferson?"

"Yes, no need to concern yourself. Just out of breathe." Paul nodded, but again coughed- this time with more force.

"You need rest and warmth. We shall return to the flat and have the nanny bring you up something hot; tea and biscuits." Sherlock ordered quickly flagging down a hansom. Paul laughed but it turned into a bout of coughing.

"I would like to accompany you both back to the flat—I wish to examine ." John stated firmly, eyes watching the man carefully.

"Chronic inflammatory of the airways, Watson." Holmes stated pulling open the door and shouting the address to the street.

"Asthma?"

"Not so as to be a problem, just when overexertion has presented itself; running or strenuous labor." Jefferson seated himself next to Sherlock, whoes face was one of worry. John felt envy flash over his features, glad he was still outside so none could witness the slip of his mask. Quickly he entered the carriage, closing the door behind. Horses snorted as they felt the whip across their flanks and promptly took off through the all but empty streets.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

It wasn't until they were settled by the roaring fireplace, a large pot of tea resting on the table accompanied with freshly baked biscuits, that Sherlock allowed himself to focus.. Paul was sitting by the orange glow, a blanket wrapped around his strong body as green eyes focused on the wooden horse forming in his hands. John closed his medical kit with a faint snap before walking over to pour himself some tea. The aroma smelled delicious. The doctor indulged himself on the baked goods that Mrs. Hudson had brought up; terribly missing the buttery biscuits that he had shared with Holmes when they had been flatmates.

"Why do you suppose a man smoking the same brand of cigar was present at tonight's match?" Paul spoke, the knife slicing through the the wood and adding to the pile of shavings on the floor.

"Observing." Sherlock shook his head gravely, fingers steeped under his chin. "I presume he was studying us, perhaps even following since we observed the crime scene but with the lack of data, I cannot know for sure."

"Spying you mean." John leaned back, sipping at the steaming drink and watching as his dear friend thought from his tiger skin rug.

"Possibly."

"Why would he spy on us?"

"Why not?"

"What do you mean why not?"

"Oh come now, surely even you can see; men working in the most well known bank in London, murdered and a group of men investigating? They are being is something about these murders that is rousing the interests of the second party. Why kill a group of secretaries? What acts pertain to motive?"

The three gentlemen sat in silence, the occasional crackle from the hearth. Sherlock sighed aloud, rubbing a hand tiredly over his face. How long had he gone without sleep? John thought noting the dark circles under his eyes. Sherlock seemed to sense his stare for his dark eyes met blue, his expressions unreadable.

"It is late; almost midnight. Surely your wife is distraught in your absence."

John heard the silent dismissal, even though it held some truth. It still struck in a way that should not have been so effective, yet the doctor felt a wave of animosity to the mention of his wife. Why should he leave? Was he not part of this just as Mr. Jefferson. Then again the lieutenant had no wife to return to. This notion created another volley of unease.

" Possibly I may stay the night to keep on eye on Mr. Jefferson."

"No need. I am more than capable of attending to the old goat." Sherlock stated dryly, eyes returning to the man intent on his carving who rolled his eyes in mock horror. The familiarity was sickening.

"Then a bid you farewell." John replied coldly, placing his bowler atop his head and tightening the scarf rather tightly about his neck. Without another word the doctors footsteps drifted down the stairs, not even pausing to wish Mrs. Hudson a good night.

Sherlock meanwhile tried to tie down the jittery emotions pooling in his belly. One small bit of data was concerning the detective; why would Watson speak so coldly to him when he had stated the obvious? Watson who was married, who had a wife waiting for him back in their new home. Why was he so adamant in wanting to stay? The doctor had made it clear that he had wanted nothing more to do with cases yet there he had been, sitting in his flat drinking tea and eating biscuits!

"What troubles you?" the voice was soft, caring and warm. Sherlock shivered and sprawled himself down on the skin, his dark curls lying on the head of the tiger.

"Absolutely nothing, my dear Jefferson." Sherlock replied with a yawn. For the first time in years, Sherlock had the notion for sleep. A soft rustle of fabric, the patter of bare feet and Paul was sitting next to the man, the finished carving in his hand.

"For you."

Sherlock raised a brow, reaching towards the offered gift. The wood, not entirely smooth, was warm against his palm; the fresh pine tingling his nostrils. The detective ran a thumb across the belly, his eyes drifting up to meet the lieutenants. Green like grass in summer watched him, the dark lashes half closed. His breathing was back to normal though a slight pink hue colored his cheekbones. Sherlock dropped his gaze back to the carving, an unknown feeling warming his heart.

"I thank-you," Sherlock murmured, the horse dancing lightly across his chest. Paul smiled gently, brushing a stray lock of hair from the man's brow.

"No need to thank me."

"Then it is forgotten."

Paul chuckled Oranges and reds flickered across his skin, the war veteran lost in the world of his own thoughts as he watched Sherlock's eyes drift shut. Moments later sleep welcomed the detective giving his face an innocence that would have enticed the greatest of men. Jefferson waited a while longer before placing a soft kiss upon his flatmates brow. Rising the man left to his room leaving Sherlock asleep on the floor, the lieutenants blanket covering his form.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

It was a quarter past six when John Watson pushed open the door to 221B Baker Street, the mornings paper scrunched in his left hand. He had not slept well, his blue eyes ghosted from his visions. He greeted Mrs. Hudson who was dusted furniture, her blonde hair tied up in a firm bun. He strode up the stairs and found himself standing beside the door in which he knew so well. Without knocking he turned the brass knob, entering into the flat. He glanced around the dimness- the curtains had yet to be drawn, and spotted the man asleep on the floor. Sherlock Holmes oblivious to the outside world mumbled under the blanket, turning on his side. John felt the blood flow downwards; the man looked at ease, without a care. His black hair was swept to one side, his thick lashes resting on pale skin. His lips were slightly parted, his breathing peaceful. He was still clad in his attire from the previous night though his feet where bare. John felt his throat constrict as he took a step forwards. Gingerly he knelt down, fingers trembling.

"Holmes."

The man stirred but did not wake. John ran a gloved hand across his friends cheek, his heart rate accelerating.

"Holmes."

"Hmmm?" The man shifted slightly,eyes still clouded with sleep. Sherlock smiled as if drunk as he awoke to the doctor stroking his jaw. "Watson...my dear Watson." John felt lust tear through his veins at the deep sensual voice repeating his name. Then as if realizing where he was, Sherlock's eyes flashed open, jumping to his feet with a shout.

"What time is it?"

"Wha-the time, Holmes?" Watson rearranged his vocal cords, not trusting his own voice or to what had just occurred moments before. Struggling to his feet the doctor successfully hid the blush creeping about his neck.

"Yes, the time. Oh. Watson. What are you doing here?" Sherlock stared at the man as if seeing him for the first time, heart racing against his will. John's eyes flew to the carving clutched at his friends chest, Sherlock's state of emotions unknown to his person.

"I came to help with the case, Inspector Lestrade told us he would be here at six thirty; it is now six o' clock."

"Oh, the Lestrade. The names. Yes, yes. How could I have forgotten? Was I asleep?" Sherlock asked in a flush, teeth biting at his lips. John grinned at the man's expression.

"You were; I must say it is much needed in."

"Sleep? How many hours are wasted in sleep? There is much to do, so little time and sleep? A much over exaggerated state of human behavior. "

"What's the matter?" Paul Jefferson exclaimed bursting in through the bathroom door, clutching a towel tightly across his waist. "I heard a shout!"

"Nothing, nothing, nothing!" Sherlock drawled while he paced around, "I find it infuriating to have to wait on getting data from a man, Lestrade no less! Jefferson get dressed at once!"

"Pardon me, Dr. Watson." Paul turned his attention to the doctor, who nodded briefly allowing the man to slip back to his privacy. John offered himself the seat next to the window, the rays of first light slipping through the curtains cracks.

"I brought you this mornings paper if you care to read it." John offered as Sherlock plopped himself down opposite, eyes watching the doctor with something akin to curiosity. His long pale fingers toyed idly with the wooden horse as he studied his dear friend. The man had not slept well for his face seemed weary; his clothes—rather thrown together, were not in the tidy state as per his usual state of dress. He had hurried down a breakfast—small crumbs sticking to the sides of his neatly trimmed mustache and had forgotten his walking stick. Most unusual.

"Peaches?"

"What?"

"I said peaches. I picked up peach jam at the bakery a half mile down last week; fantastic with biscuits . So, again I ask, peaches?"

"No, I'm quite fine, thank-you." John raised a brow, burying himself with the morning news, his friend ignoring the paper completely. The doctor propped his feet up against the table, riding himself of his overcoat as he settled down comfortably.

"Stubbornness does not become you, Watson." Sherlock sniffed as the doctor shot him a glance over stop the newspaper, the pages turning with an audible sound. Paul emerged moments later, buttoning up his vest. A knock on the door roused the mens attention as a short man presented himself. He was dressed in the black uniform of a police official, thin face parsed in a permanent frown.

"Inspector Lestrade to see a Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Send him in." Sherlock smiled, revealing white teeth. The man gave a stiff bow before retreating to the downstairs floor. Shortly after, footsteps were heard from the stairs. Lestrade greeted the men a good morning just as Paul threw open the curtains; sunlight advancing into the room in full force.

"I have someone who wishes to speak with you, ." Lestrade said, turning his attention to the detective wincing away from the light. The man was a mystery; an incredible mind, a wicked tongue and a body any man would envy. Some days Lestrade would find Mr. Holmes infuriating and at times rather devilishly handsome. It seemed a constant battle, one the Inspector found rather tiring.

"You brought what I asked for?

"Let me finish; as I was saying, there is someone here to see you, someone of significant importance." Lestrade barked, lighting up a cigarette, eyes warily watching the taller man. Sherlock frowned, fingers itching to receive the information pertaining to the cigar shops in London.

"Then why the hesitation? The list, if you would be so kind." Sherlock stated rather irritably. Lestrade reached into his inside jacket, pulling out a sheet of yellowed paper. He strode over to Sherlock, passing over the list. "This man, the owner of the bank, why should he be so keen to seek my counsel?"

"How did you know-"

"The only person outside of the police department and the two gentlemen here who would see me in accordance with this case would be a member of the bank—hence in all likelihood, the owner. Most likely concerned with the reputation of his establishment."

Lestrade pursed his lips, eyes narrowing. He huffed before nodding to the constable behind him to bring up the owner. Sherlock smirked, finger-tips pressed around the carving. The fun was about to begin.


	6. Chapter 6

**Another chapter up! Sorry for the wait. Spelling mistakes all mine; don't have a beta. I will be working on my next stories too, so it might be a bit before I update this again. Thanks for all the favorites everyone :)**

**-Awhoha**

Mr. Riley Stockburck was a large man; not large in the sense of weight but in the term of height. He wore a rich suit of pine brown, a white silk shirt and a tie that would rival even the purple flowers that bloomed in spring. His eyes were narrow, always jumping to various sections of the study while his foot bobbed nervously against the floor. A white handkerchief wiped away the beads of sweat forming on his brow. His dark hair was slicked back against the top hat, a gold pocket watch secured in the top left pocket of his breast. Mr. Stockburck spoke in worried tones as he leaned forwards in his seat.

"I appreciate you seeing me, Mr. Holmes. Its tragic what happened to those men; fine men they were," said he. "Why someone would murder them is a mystery, one I wish you to solve. I will you pay you, of course, for your time and efforts."

"Describe these men, leave nothing out." Sherlock examined his nails, the lines of his forehead narrowed in thought. John Watson stood by his side accompanied by Paul Jefferson. Slightly surprised by the abruptness of the detectives tone, the man quickly nodded, once again attending to his brow.

"The four men found yesterday; Mr. Brumblebury, Mr. Schnider, Mr. Deptden and a Mr. Finchley—all worked for my company in the respected positions as head secretaries. The three men; Mr. Brumblebury, Mr. Deptden and Mr. Finchley were married, while Mr. Schnider was due to be engaged. They were respectable gentlemen, all four having considerable degrees. The Bank of England is intended to provide protection against threats to our financial system as well as supporting the economic policies of the British Government. We hire men with such needed requirements as they played a minor role in assisting that these guidelines of the Bank where followed."

"These four men had access to all paramount documentation and information, am I correct? Of course I am. Moving on. Now, the question one must ask is why these four men who played, as you say, a minor role in the system, where murdered in such a fashion. If they were in any way minor, then why be of interest? No- they had a far more important role in this game than that." Sherlock crossed his legs, hand resting his chin.

"Well- I- I do admit that they may have been involved further but-"

"How many tonnes of gold does the Bank of England currently hold in its possession?"

"About three hundred tonnes, but what does that have to do with-?" Mr. Stockburk exclaimed.

"Nothing- curiosity my dear fellow. I will need any evidence associated with the so named deceased to be delivered to this very flat. Mr. Watson and Mr. Jefferson will be delighted to be of assistance in any way they can. Now if you'll excuse me, I have business to attend to." Sherlock rose gracefully, snatching his coat and hat before disappearing through the door leaving behind stunned silence.

"What that's it?" the Banker looked up to the Inspector with a horrified expression. Lestrade shrugged his shoulders, his sly eyes glancing to the two men still standing behind Holmes' vacant chair.

"That's Sherlock Holmes for you, filled with his own sense of energetic nature."

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

Once Mr. Stockburk and the Inspector had taken leave, John sank down into the chair, pouring himself a drink. Paul strode to the sill, throwing the window wide open. He leaned forwards, arms crossed over the sill as John watched from over his glass.

"I hate it when he goes off like that."

"What? Holmes? "

"He knows something; why else would he flee?"

"Perhaps. I must say, Dr. Watson. Can I take you in confidence?"

John raised a brow, placing the drink down with a soft clink. The doctor leaned back in his chair, legs crossing as the leuitantent turned about, green eyes serious.

"What is the matter?"

"Nothing is the matter per say, but I would like to ask you about Holmes; you have lived with him for many years."

"Yes," John relented, his voice border lining calm. He didn't like where this was heading.

"What are Holmes outlook on relations?"

"Relations?"

"Romantic of nature. Has he ever had a lover?"

If the drink had still been in the good doctors grasp, the crystal would have shattered into a thousand pieces.

"A lover? Holmes?" John choked out. "No, I have never seen him take interest in any person."

"He spoke of a woman once, 'The woman' he called her. Irene Alder?"

"Yes. No, no. He held no emotion akin to love for her, more of an admirable nature. The only woman to attract his attention, rather outsmarted his person. She has long since left this world."

"Then Sherlock Holmes has no interests in the fairer sex."

"None that I have seen." John felt his stomach drop at the glint in the man's gaze.

"Would it disgust you, Dr. Watson, if I were to pursue Sherlock Holmes? I wish not to trouble you, but merely state my intentions. Sherlock thinks most highly of you; you are his dearest friend."

"You wish to be in-in a _romantic_ relationship with Holmes?" John felt his voice rise, knuckles white against the arms of the chair. His heart screamed in objection, anger brewing into rage.

"This concerns you?" Paul asked, striding forth and placing himself opposite the doctor.

"Holmes- I say Mr. Jefferson. Sherlock Holmes views relations as if it were a deadly serpent. He looks upon such matters with a sneer, loathes every form of society. I do not agree with such actions nor the repercussions that will follow."

"Is Sherlock not a man worth fighting for? Would you not fight to keep your wife, , with everything you possessed?" Paul questioned, his voice a deep bass. John clenched his jaw with tremendous force, the notion to throttle the man sitting before him so intense that it took every ounce of strength he had to remain seated. His venomous thoughts were interrupted as Mrs. Hudson entered, a small bowl of edibles packed high on a silver tray.

"Good morning, Mr. Jefferson, Dr. Watson. Something to nibble on?"

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but I must be off." John stood, throwing on his jacket with haste. He left Paul and Mrs. Hudson to their pleasantries, blood boiling like a hot brand.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

Sherlock hastily replaced the note inside his breast pocket, tilting the hat across his dark curls. The morning sun shone brightly; the brown eyes wincing in discomfort. Pushing open a heavy glass door, the brass bells chiming quietly, the consulting detective made his way in while straightening the red tie around his throat. He nodded in greeting to the seedy looking man behind the counter, tucking the walking stick under his arm. Tins of tobacco lined the shops walls, the thick heavy scent of cigar smoke clinging to the peeling paint.

"Can I' elp you, sir?" The man inquired as Sherlock tapped a finger over his lips, eyes scanning the vast variety.

"Yes, how kind of you. I'm looking for a particular brand; Colorado Claro—English made."

"White or red label?"

"Both. Grab one straight out of the box if you would be so kind-" Sherlock grinned as the man broke the seal, handing him a slender brown cigar with a red and gold label wrapped around the tip. " Light?"

The taste was rich wood with the flavour of caramel—no maple sugar and the familiar taste of spice. Sherlock let out a blue ring of smoke, savoring the moment of indulgence. An exact match.

"May I be so bold as to ask who your supplier is?" Sherlock spoke from around his smoke, counting out the full price of the purchase.

"Sorry, sir." The man winked, giving Sherlock a toothy grin, "we sell the best and if I was to tell you, it would be against policy."

"What a shame," Sherlock pouted as he slipped in an extra bill, licking his lips slowly. The small man flushed, tiny eyes locked on the generous tip. He glanced around quickly; they were the only two in the shop, and motioned Sherlock closer.

"You didn't 'ear this from me, but we get our supplies from the docks—Timothy and Co. I 'ave a mate back who 'elps; we're the only shop in London to carry this special type of Colorado Claro.""

"How delightful." Sherlock tipped his hat as a few other men entered the shop and left, leaving the man to his new customers. Once back outside, the dark haired detective pulled out the list, crossing off the last name with a smirk. "Delightful indeed."

It was about mid afternoon when Sherlock Holmes crashed into a doctor John Watson as he rounded a corner near the heart of London, knocking both parties to the ground. John, cursing loudly as he brought himself back to his feet, turned towards the offending man. His jaw dropped as he watched his friend dusting himself off, a deep frown marring his handsome features. The consulting detective was dressed fashionably, which was quite shocking in its own. He wore a tight fighting gray overcoat, a maroon vest, a white shirt and a brilliant scarlet tie. He even carried a silver handled walking stick in his left hand.

"Holmes?" John spluttered, reaching out a hand to help the man to his feet.

"Watson," Sherlock huffed as they stood staring at one reached out and pulled the fake beard from Sherlock's face, blue eyes narrowed.

"Whatever are you doing, dressed like that?"

"What ever are you doing out from the flat?"

Remembering the statement that Jefferson had confessed John flushed, removing his hand from Sherlock's jaw. He had been wandering the streets, trying to clear his head, trying to calm his beating heart. His icy blue eyes wandering across his friends face- Sherlock raised a brow, tongue darting out from between his pink lips.

"Never mind that now, Watson. There is something of utmost importance that I need you to- cabbie!" Sherlock flung out an arm, the horses nearly rearing in fright. Without another word the detective sprang into the hansom, dragging John behind him.

"What the Devil is doing on, Holmes!" John grunted out in frustration as Sherlock shifted beside him, shrugging out of his jacket.

"Patience my dear Watson."

"You, talk to me about patience? Here we are sitting in a cab going- oh I don't know- somewhere with you dragging me across London and never bothering to tell me what you were doing this morning; dressed like some-"

"Wealthy banker?"

"Yes, banker. Wait, never mind. Tell me what's going on!"

"Anger."

"What?" John snapped giving Sherlock a glare. Holmes sniffed, eyes dancing.

"You are angry, my dearest Watson. Very visibly angry."

"Oh you just noticed!"

"No, for sometime now."

John flushed crimson at Sherlock who was gazing intently at his person.

"Tell me where we're going."

"Your maddened by something; clearly it isn't me-" Sherlock brushed his hair back, dropping the top hat to the opposite seat. "Mary? She's kicked you out hasn't she. Finally-"

"What? No."

"Perhaps you've lost a bet-"

"Just stop." John seethed, grabbing hold of Sherlock's distracting necktie. "No, I did not lose a bet; Mary did not kick me out. I've been wondering throughout London trying to clear my head because I've just had a lovely chat with your flatmate!"

"Jefferson? What's the old goat done now?"

"Your old goat has just declared his intentions for you!" John gripped Sherlock tighter, unconsciously pulling the man closer. The doctor could smell the wood like scent of cigars on his friends attire, could see every detail in the brown eyes; eyes flecked with gold.

"Intentions?" Sherlock felt his voice crack slightly, John was so close. He could smell the cologne, feel the strength in those hands, feel the heat.

"He wishes to court you!" John felt himself shout, saw Sherlock's eyes widen slightly. John was breathing heavily allowing the pent up storm to release. The hansom swung about but neither men seemed to care for the cobbled streets, their eyes locked together; one in rage one in confusion.

"My dear Watson, you must be mistaken-"

"He means to bed you, Holmes!"

Sherlock blinked up at the doctor, mouth slightly parted. John looked down at those lips, at those sinfully inviting lips and felt his blood boil. He imagined Jefferson leaning down and claiming his friends mouth and felt the rage rekindle in his chest.

"Did you not hear me?" John whispered too angered to shout. Why was Holmes remaining silent?

"He could be an adequate lover," Sherlock joked, letting a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it was lost on the thunderous expression that crossed Watson's guise. Sherlock swallowed as Watson dragged him closer, their faces inches apart.

"You think this is funny, don't you?" John stated calmly. Sherlock shivered; it was the serenity of his tone that worried the detective. Whenever John flew into a rage he was perfectly civil; the utter gentlemen before he lashed out like the soldier that he was. "Do you not understand the repercussions that would occur if you were to- to_ sleep_ with another _man_? To go against the proper order?"

"I do not care what society thinks, Watson." Sherlock hummed reaching for John's hands, trying to pry the steely grip from his throat. Sherlock was thinking, his mind whirling like a tornado; would he, John Hamish Watson, forever abandon the detective if his affections where known? Would he be repulsed as he was now? Would he look upon him with cold eyes filled with disgust?

"No. No you don't which is why I am telling you-" John was saying, blue eyes like the sky freed from the rain clouds.

"Who I choose to sleep with is none of your concern, old fellow." Sherlock hissed, heart racing. "You have committed yourself to a petty woman-winnowed yourself from my side and yet here you sit lecturing me of what I can and cannot do."

John thinned his lips gazing into Sherlock's face now flushed with colour. The detective was breathing rapidly, his nose flaring. His white throat, now exposed due to slack, was trembling. Without warning the carriage stopped, the driver shouting out the arrived destination.

"My business is but my own," Sherlock snapped as he tore himself from Watson's grasp. "It is of no concern to you. I present a choice: follow me now or retreat home. If you choose to pursue, we shall forget about our little disagreement. If you return do not trouble yourself further with this case."

Without another word Sherlock pushed open the door, leaving John sitting shocked in the leather seat, his hands feeling utterly empty.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

Sherlock stood beside the water like a board, back stiff and straight. He hide the faint smile while he counted the sound of footsteps against the loose stone as John Watson made way to his side. Sherlock glanced at the man, whose face was expressionless; a face so beautiful it would have seemed to have been carved out of some Greek myth.

"What we discussed-"

"It is of little importance."

"No. No its not—as your _friend_ I will not have people thinking you are some _fluff_."

"Why should they care about the man I desire or what we engage in our spare moments of freedom?" Sherlock countered, tired that the doctor was pressing the matter. "They all think I'm lost: delirious, unglued, batty. So why should this matter at all?"

Silence followed as they both watched the ships glide across the waves, the cries of sea birds screeching overhead.

"You desire a man?" John asked, his heart readying itself to stop. Recalling the detective remarking on the trivial female heart and their boring and utterly insignificant affections, it became clear that Sherlock Holmes truly did not fancy women. John gripped his cane as Sherlock shot him a glance, neither accepting nor denying the question. A new plague of questions aimed themselves into the heart of the good doctor: who was he?; was it Jefferson?; did Holmes love him? The last question sickened John to the pit of his gut.

"See there?" Sherlock abruptly cried pointing towards a large pier which housed a large warehouse. John took a deep breath as if to rid himself of the evil thoughts running though his thoughts. He accepted the spyglass that the man offered him, looking ahead to what had caught Sherlock's attention.

"It's a warehouse, Holmes." John raised a brow, clearing out his throat. "Men moving boxes-"

"Not just any boxes; crates filled with cigars. None other than Colorado Claro. Fancy getting your hands dirty then, old boy?" Sherlock grinned, all thoughts of argument vanished from his mind. John smirked and nodded, both men tucking their canes under their arms. Their fine shoes slid through the sand and rough stones as the good doctor whistled a tune under his breathe, Sherlock rolling his dark eyes.

"Something a little more adventurous Watson, don't be so repetitious."


	7. Chapter 7

**I am a horrible person for not updating sooner; I have been so busy. But here is another chapter. O_O**

**-Awhoha**

"I never should have followed you."

"Negativity is dripping from your tongue, my dear Watson. It isn't healthy-"

"It's because of you that we are now trapped in this mess-"

"I wouldn't say tra-"

"If we get out of this alive, I will slowly dissect you myself, Holmes."

Sherlock Holmes shot the man beside him a nettled look—the expression lost on the broad shoulders. He could feel Watson stiffen as they slowly rotated within the semi circle, their backs brushing in a dance of anticipation. Their polished shoes scuffed against the wood of the boat as they harmonized with the eerie creaks that drifted up from the waters depths. Fog had begun to settle in, the light rapidly disappearing.

The detective's almond eyes darted past each of the seven men, mind calculating; three pistols and four tightly fisted thugs, two of the four holding torches. The four posed no real threat however, the men wielding the firearms were another elaborate calculation entirely. This had been rather unexpected.

_2 Hours Previous_

Both men crouched behind wooden crates, stray bits of straw sticking out from between sorry cracks. Men hustled around as sweat dripped from their brow, moving large boxes of cargo inside a large warehouse. Smoke rose from lofty chimneys, the red bricks stained with dirt and soot. Sturdy work ponies dug at the earth with their hooves as carts were readied for transport. Shouts were voiced throughout the busy late afternoon, drowning out the sounds of the city. Sherlock Holmes quietly peered from behind the crates, passing his hat over to the good doctor, his thick mass of dark curls combed back to reveal a face grinning with excitement.

"You have a plan then?" John inquired, tossing the top hat towards the earth beside his person.

"I always have a plan."

"What is it?"

"Just follow my lead-"

"You're a selfish bastard aren't you, Holmes."

"Again with the negativity Watson. Will you never let it go."

"Let what go?"

"You clearly have an attitude problem."

"Wait what? An _attitude_ problem? You jest at a time like this?"

John frowned at Sherlock's high chuckle, the man once again kneeling by his side. The laughter stopped completely as the detective glanced into the doctors icy blue eyes. Sherlock made a show with his eyes, rolling them towards the sky, a dramatic sigh escaping his lips.

"Where is the humour within you my good fellow? Never mind, we shall discuss your lack for adventure later. Right now we must focus on the task currently at hand." Sherlock licked his lips, once more peering out from behind the crate.

"So what do we do now? Sit here until it quiets down?" John inquired watching as his friend silently mouthed his racing thoughts.

"The plan is to infiltrate the warehouse, found out what we can and get back in time for evening tea."

"How do we enter when there is no pause in activity?"

"Not we."

"What?"

"I will enter, you shall remain as you are."

John felt the anger bubbling in his blood. Keeping his voice as calm as he dared, the doctor gripped the smaller man's jacket, bringing the detective almost flush against his chest. "What do you mean, Holmes?"

"You are to remain here."

"I am coming with you."

"No."

"And why is that exactly?"

"I will not have you harmed; Mrs. Watson would have me hanged and my neck is far to precious to fall at an end so early on in life."

"I will not sit idle while you risk entering a warehouse on your own!" John narrowed his eyes bringing Holmes closer still. He could smell the aroma of cigars lingering on his friends lips, the scent of honey and spice attacking his senses. John frowned underneath his mustache as the man before him flushed slightly, gaze darting over to the left.

"If you may, my dear fellow, release your hold from my guise."

"Not until you take me with you."

Sherlock felt the fingers tighten against his jacket. The doctors hands were holding him captive, making the air harder to breath. He could almost count the exact amounts of blue hues displayed in the angered glare. A wave of heat flooded between the detectives legs. Sherlock muttered words of consent, putting some space between himself and the doctor as his jacket was released.

"So the plan?" John whispered as footsteps neared the crates.

"Plan?" Sherlock silently cursed himself. All rational thought had escaped him having the doctor in such close proximity. "Ah yes. Right. We need to blend in with this hooligans, take it down a notch. Watson?"

"Yes?"

"Don't miss."

"What do you mean don't miss?"

Just as two men rounded each corner intent on bringing the selected cargo, Sherlock cracked his cane across one of the mens knees, bringing him crashing to the ground with a muffled shout. Watson spun round to see the surprised and then enraged face of the second man. The good doctor managed a surprised grin before bringing his cane up under the man's jaw. The man gurgled in horror giving John the opportunity to knock the man to the ground and render him unconscious. John, remembering that there had been too, hastily turned only to find his friend lighting his pipe as he sat on the other man's back, now oblivious to the outside world. The detective had removed the fallen man's cap and had placed it upon his own crest.

"Now is not the time for smoking your pipe!" John muttered, risking a glance from behind the crate. Their actions had not been heard over the sound of shouts, the crack of whips and the whiny of ponies. "You're lucky we weren't discovered!"

"Hush, Watson." Sherlock grinned showing his white smile, smoke billowing from his nostrils. "Our window of opportunity has arrived and yet you still babble like a dingy bird."

"Dingy bird?"

"Yes. Dingy bird."

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

The warehouse smelt of smoke and spice, soot smeared across the fiery red bricks. Straw littered the cobbled stones, their golden bodies dancing in the feeble sunlight. The sound of water crashed against a large boat tethered on the adjoining dock mingling with the roar of machinery. Men hollered, their faces streaked with black as they rushed to pack the masses of cigars. Two men clad in workers dress mingled with the crowd, hats pulled low over their faces. Sherlock watched under hooded lids, his cheeks smeared with soot. Passing an open crate, the detective dove twitching fingers into the box before placing his prize in his trouser pocket. Almond eyes darted behind him once more. Good. Watson was still by his side.

"Now what?" John whispered, dancing out of the way of a man carrying a crate over his shoulder.

"Now we search for decisive evidence, old boy." Sherlock's voice was low humming with furor."There."

John Watson raised his brows as Sherlock gestured to a side door to what looked like a storage room. They slipped in, grunting in greeting to a pair of men who were struggling with a large crate.

"Hurry up will ya? These boxes don't move themselves!"

John held his breath risking a glance at the detective. Sherlock widen his eyes, cocking his head. John tightened his lips, heart hammering in his chest. Cursing Sherlock to the ends of time both men joined in lifting the heavy load.

"Come on then, move!"

John felt his brow knit together as they weaved through the crowd towards a large ship being readied.

"Right then! Let's grab the last batch."

Sherlock grabbed John's shirt just as the men walked off towards the dock, pressing the doctor flush against the cold metal. They stood motionless their breathes harmonizing with one another. John felt the curls brushing against his cheek.

"Holmes?"

"Hush John."

The doctor was about to open his mouth to argue when, to his great bewilderment, a set of warm lips crushed against his own. It was as if a horse had kicked the doctor for an explosion of warmth flooded throughout his body. John stared at Sherlock as the man drew back his lips, brown eyes revealing naught. Still pressed against John Watson, Sherlock peered around the cylinder. The humming in John's ears seemed to clear, replaced by a set of fading footsteps. A moment later the detective released the stunned man, walking back out into the open.

"Are you going to stand around like an idiot Watson? The way is now unimpeded."

"I-" John started but Sherlock had already begun making his way to a half open door. Pushing down the emotions welling within him and trying to drive all thoughts of sudden arousal, the good doctor hurried after his friend.

The inside of the ship was dark lit by small lamps hanging from the sides. Sherlock bit the pipe between his teeth, his mind at a stand still. He needed to think but that was now impossible. He had done it. He had kissed Doctor John Hamish Watson. If only to silence the man from being discovered. Sherlock breathed in, the light from the tobacco mixing in with the blank stare plastered on his feature.

"Holmes!" John hissed. "Behind us!"

Sherlock snapped out of his daze, almost falling down the stairwell. Shadows followed by voices were descending, nearing the two men.

"Right you are, old fellow." Sherlock grabbed his pipe in his left hand and made the last few steps before hiding in the shadows, John pressed up against the opposite wall.

"I told you, not until the cargo is fully loaded!"

"That's what I said hours ago, you ninny!"

A burly man accompanied by a smaller well rounded fellow emerged from the stair well. They turned the corner still arguing with apparent dislike, a torch held high to illuminate their path.

"Good afternoon gentlemen." Sherlock greeted from the darkness, the brief light from his pipe displaying his dancing eyes made black by his surroundings. Both men froze, eyes focused on the man before them.

"Hey you're not supposed to be down here!"

Sherlock chuckled, his hands bringing the hat further down his face. The beady eyed man made a step forwards but clutched at his throat as John grabbed him in a headlock from behind the shadows, the torch falling in a vast array of sparks. The unfortunate man's companion swore and charged at the detective. Sherlock closed his eyes letting his mind fly.

_Male, roughly seventy kilograms in weight. Pain in lower left shoulder. Side step right right hook, elbow to the seventh cervical vertebra of back torso. Step behind and engage headlock, thus successfully engaging cerebral hypoxia._

"Sherlock!"

The detectives eyes flew open at John's warning. The man was inches from his person, right arm thrown high, mouth turned up in an angry howl. With an agility that surprised John, Sherlock stepped with graceful ease, bringing his elbow down on the man's back with sickly force. The burly man gasped as needle sharp pain spread throughout his shoulders. Sherlock wasted no time in bringing his powerful arms around the man's throat. Within seconds the man was left slumped across the ships floor, unconscious to the world.

"Brilliant!" John muttered darkly, kicking the man's legs off to the side. The doctor reached for the fallen torch, the light not yet burned away. A low hearty chuckle rose from around the glow of a pipe.

"Do I detect a manner of amazement in your tone, old boy?"

"I would put it more under the category, aggravated."

"I do so imagine that it must be exceedingly difficult to witness such skill and not let your adoration burst forth! Hurry now, Watson. There may be more of them-"

John blew though his mouth as he followed the brisk tap of his friends shoes, successfully hiding the blush that had risen from his cheeks. The hiss of steam and the occasional groan accompanied the pair as they wandered further down. They paused at a large metal door, the doctor pressing his ear close.

"There doesn't appear to be anyone inside; no audible sounds that I can identify."

Sherlock allowed a brief shudder to pass, his mind filling with the soft whisper that escaped those hard pressed lips hidden behind a dark mustache. The voice, so brass and filled with briskness, was as light as a summers breeze. Sherlock felt the doctors shoulder brush up against his chest as John examined the current impediment to their case. Blue eyes re-focused on the detective, his brow creasing towards his nose, discovering Sherlock to be staring absently at the tops of his shoes.

"Well? Must I open the door myself?"

Sherlock grunted. John had a brief moment to catalog his friend's peculiar behavior before the large circular knob began to turn. Both sets of hands, still stained with soot, grappled with the handle all the while earning a squeal of protest from the door. With a final strain the door swung open. Sherlock further progressed with out stretched fingers, dark eyes scrutinizing the inky hold.

"Now what?"

"We investigate, Watson. Don't worry; I can almost see those frown lines decorating your brow. By now most of the workers will have gone home for the day. We have plenty of time."

John mumbled to himself, allowing the torch to extinguish the darkness as he advanced further into the ships belly. They had entered to what seemed a study; books hugged the floor along with bits of scrap yellowing pages. Small candles glued themselves to the desk pushed against the far corner while a quill stained with ink, was left abandoned by a page scribbled with calligraphy. John covered his nose with his free hand; the smell of musky paper overpowering as the two men moved through the small room.

"Interesting."

"What?"

"These pages, rather poorly inscribed, hold details to the comings and goings of this ship along with all its contents."

"We can use them to search for-"

"Yes, Watson. The cigars. If these poisoned choices of indulgence were in fact manufactured here, we may find who the guilty-"

"Person is. "

"Precisely, my good fellow. Our adventure has led me to believe that there are only a few, a few select number of persons that are actually involved in this titillated case. No. Most of these men here are common, far too moronic to spin such webs of deceit. Oh don't give me a look Watson; most people are common its insulting. Back to our most relevant subject. These papers will help us in pin pointing the very- Did you hear something, Watson?"

"We are in the belly of a ship, Holmes."

"_Shhh_. Quiet."

John sighed, switching the torch to the opposite hand. Flexing his numbing fingers the good doctor listened, eyes on the unmoving detective. Sherlock's eyes reflected the light of the torch, an endless sea filled with secrets; secrets that the doctor wanted to unlock, marvel in all their glory. This man watched, fascinated as the colours changed from brown to gold with each hungry flame. A strange pain filled John as he continued his gaze upon his friend; a pain filled with anxiety that he could not control. Sherlock's eyes flashed to the blue, his brow narrowing.

"Time to go."

"I thought you said we had time!"

Without an answering word, Sherlock stuffed a few pages into the hidden folds of his pockets, John following close behind. There it was. Footsteps sounded above; loud and angry.

"Your friend must have recovered and went to get help." Sherlock stated in a snarl of disappointment as they rounded the corner. John bit the inside of his lip, that statement a stab to his pride. His friends words rang true however. The smaller of the two men which they had encountered prior, had vanished.

"I-" John started in an attempt to rectify his person, but the detective covered the doctors lips with a soot streaked palm.

"Now is not the time to admit your mistakes Watson. We can gladly discuss the matter in which you failed to successfully render a man unconscious over tea, but we cannot swaddle like a pair of chickens."

The heat across his lips vanished as Sherlock spun up towards the stairs. Dropping the dying torch to the floor, John hastened to pursue his friend all the while ignoring the throbbing pain in his leg.

Just a few more steps, John he thought to himself. He paused, jaw slack as a man flew past down onto the grate below. Looking back up, John caught a glimpse of Sherlock's striking fists.

"Just what a I need. More fighting!"

*o.O.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

"Is that the lot of them?" John heaved, wiping a trail of blood from a split lip.

"Look, Watson, the mist is settling in." Sherlock remarked, hand buried in his trouser pockets, pipe between his parted lips. His hair was wild; marked with soot and driven in all four directions.

"Good. Lets just enjoy this lovey view shall we?" John hissed, leg now shaking with the effort of supporting its carry. "Why not have a spot of tea with these lovey chaps, smoke a few cigars and call it a day!"

"Your angry."

"Why would I be angry?"

"Your tone is angry."

John flared his nostrils, enraged. Looking up into the misty sky he tried to count down his emotions, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Every time I accompany you with one of your cases, you get us into trouble. No- don't speak Sherlock, listen. You dash off on your own, insult me to no end, and you endanger us both. I ask with the utmost respect; don't go running off on your own. Consult with me, let me know what you've planned so that we don't run into these situations."

"Watson."

"There you go again. Just when I ask you to do something, anything, you go ahead and do the opposite!"

"_John_."

The doctor stopped. Sherlock's gaze was not directed at him but rather across his shoulder. A chill passed through John as he slowly turned; ten men loomed from the mist, mouths turned up into fierce snarls. The doctor slowly hobbled back, stopping only when Sherlock's hand clasped the back of his shoulder.

"Ready?"

"When this is all over you and I are going to have a serious talk."

"Splendid."

Three men charged, bellows echoing throughout the empty warehouse. Sherlock moved, bringing his fists with the force of a sledge hammer. John cursed his injured leg to the very depths of Hell as he narrowly missed being driven to the ground. Moments later, the three men where soon moaning, wallowing in their misfortunes.

An unmistakable click resounded throughout the soft moans of distress. John was sweating. Three of the seven had pistols. Pistols!

"I never should have followed you."

"Negativity is dripping from your tongue, my dear Watson. It isn't healthy-"

"It's because of you that we are now trapped in this mess-"

"I wouldn't say tra-"

"If we get out of this alive, I will slowly dissect you myself, Holmes." John promised, voice trembling with the effort to stand. He felt his boot hit the side of the vessel. They were surrounded by a gang of thugs with no where to turn to.

"I humbly ask that both you and Mr. Watson keep your noses out of this investigation of yours, Mr. Holmes."

John's followed the voice; deep like the cords of an organ. A shadowy figure, half hidden in the mist, emerged behind the men. Sherlock stiffened, hand held protectively over John's shoulder.

"So kind of you, but I think I will politely decline your most generous offer."

A pregnant silence followed. The doctor started beneath the warm hand that kept his steady as a harsh bark of laughter rang out.

"I somehow knew you would say that. Men!"

"Do you trust me?" Sherlock whispered, breathe hot against the cold flesh of John's throat.

"No."

"Pity."

Falling backwards was an odd sensation. John felt the air flow around him as if trying to keep him air borne but finding his weight unbearable. He felt Sherlock's arms tighten around his chest as they fell down towards the waters below while the sounds of gunshots fired from above.


	8. UPDATE

Story Updates:

Hi everyone. I know I have been absent from fanfiction for a very long time and my stories have not been updated. I had a fall at work and injured my right arm. I have been attending physio and massage therapy to help my arm heal and this has been going on for months. My goal is to start writing again soon and keep these stories flowing. I will try to start writing again this weekend, so please bare with me.

Cheers,

Awhoha


	9. Chapter 9

The sensation of fire danced across every pore of flesh. Hands blindly reached out to one another, fingers finally managing to grab hold. Lungs that were on the verge of suffocation blissfully drank their fill as two heads broke the surface. With ragged breathing the two men struggled towards their salvation, the cargo ship now an imprint along the horizon.

With earth now beneath their feet, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes collapsed, their breath rising to the darkened sky. The sound of seagulls shrieked from above as they observed the waterlogged pair.

"I truly and undeniably despise you."

John coughed, the water clinging to his form. He was trembling. He was soaked to the bone, cold, exhausted and in a rage. He had just swam to save his skin, his shoulder cursing his existence. The doctor fumed, waiting for a smart retort, but the other man was silent. John rolled to his good side, peering down at Sherlock.

"What in- why did you not say anything!" John roared his pain half forgotten. Sherlock managed a small grin, almond eyes still focused on the heavy clouds.

"Didn't want you to worry, mother hen."

Blood had dyed the mans sleeve. John cursed. It must have been a stray bullet that had been fired down at them.

"I am fine Watson, just grazed. Don't look so distraught; causes your moustache to be far too droopy. Almost like a sad puppy."

John's jaw slackened, eyes bright with anger and disbelief. With a silent huff the doctor pushed himself up, his legs refusing to cooperate properly. He wouldn't utter another word to that…that insufferable man! John forced himself to ignore Sherlock while hearing the consulting detective's own sloshy pace match his own.

A couple passing by quickly stepped out of the way, their stares fixated upon the two men. Sherlock offered a grin to which seemed to make the matter worse, for the young man steered his lady back in the direction that they had come.

"Society has taken a turn for the worst, just see that not one person has asked-"

"And why would they? We look like a pair of criminals!" John hissed.

"Nonsense." Sherlock huffed, turning to walk backwards, eyes fixated on the vanishing couple. "Watson, I-"

"Will you just shut it, Holmes? You've done enough damage for the day."

Sherlock blinked hazily towards his companion; observed his bristled moustache, icy stare and tense mouth. That mouth. It had felt so warm, so welcoming. A blush crept across the detectives face as he continued to stare. The image of John's face so close to his kept running through his mind; the detail in his face, the way his emotions fluctuated from fear to disbelief and if he dared, lust? Could John Watson possibly have such feelings? Or had he just destroyed the very fabric of friendship that they both held dear? Sherlock allowed his mind a course of its own, his lips forming a manic grin.

"Holmes- Sherlock! Are you alright?"

The doctor caught hold of the man's chin, forcing his head slowly to examine for injury. He could see the stubble growing across the darkened cheek, the faint scars of old. John's thumb unconsciously ran across the jaw bone. The man looked overly exhausted and that worried him.

"Watson, I assure you I am quite al-"

"What did I saw about no talking?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but did not speak.

"Good. When we get back I will have a proper look at you." John forced himself to release his hold, his fingers steadily growing hotter as they lay upon bare flesh. The look in his friends' eyes was filled with some akin to erotism. Was it possible that the great Sherlock Holmes had the desire for - no. It must be that the man was wounded and delirious.

John cleared his throat as they began their long walk home.

*O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O*

"Oh dear, is he alright?"

"I will get him up to his room and examine him, no need to worry Mrs. Hudson. Please go back to bed."

No need to worry? John thought What a conciliated lie. Sherlock was not alright; his breathing was laboured and sweat had begun to appear on his brow. He had discovered when he had been forced to carry Sherlock half way across the street, that his friend had been shot not only in the arm but in one of his thighs.

John, Sherlock's weight heavy against his side, forced open the entrance way to the man's bedroom. Swearing loudly at the mess and clutter, the doctor managed to manoeuvre the detective onto the bed, swatting at the various flies and the one harmless spider.

"Sherlock!"

John felt his teeth grind. He did not need this man here. Not now, not ever.

Paul Jefferson stood in the door frame, a flood of warm lantern light illuminating his handsome features. With a snarl that appeared most feral, the man grabbed hold of John, eyes ablaze with fury.

"What happened to him, doctor?"

"He needs medical attention now." John growled, pushing the man back towards the door.

"Then I will be of assistance."

John forced himself to breath. As hateful as this man seemed, he did require the offered help.

"His breathing is laboured, I have checked his airway, nothing seems to be obstructing his flow of oxygen. I need these clothes removed; check to see if there are exit wounds present."

The sound of scissors filled the room as the Lieutenant stripped the detective of clothing. John inhaled sharply as he examined the wounds. The shot to the shoulder was just a graze, but the thigh was a different matter. The bullet has still lodged inside.

"Mr. Jefferson I need you to hold him down."

Paul nodded, his eyes locked on Sherlock. John could feel fresh anger mixing in with his fear. But that was not relevant now. He needed to focus on Sherlock. The doctor rushed over to a corner, flipping over old books and papers to access an old tattered chest. Riffling through various objects, he was able to find Sherlock's (well one of Sherlock's) stocks of morphine.

"I need you to make a tourniquet between his heart and the wound - 2 inches with padding." John found himself saying, the needle ice between his fingers. The tip pierced through Sherlock's abdomen, the drug sweeping through his bloodstream. Sherlock hissed, eyes glaring across his naked chest. Even covered with blood the man was beautiful.

"I hope you know what you are doing, mother hen." Sherlock whispered, words slurred.

John coughed out a thin smile. With his hands steady, John began the task at hand.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

Sherlock felt the sun on his face. The fly on his nose. With a weak wave of his hand he drove the fly towards the sunlight infiltrating through the heavy curtains. His entire body ached, his thigh screaming various profanities. He rotated his vision to take in the two men lying near the bedside, heads resting in their arms. John lay next to Paul, hands covered with traces of blood. Unused bandages still lay in their laps, with medical supplies scattered across the bedroom floor. Sherlock licked his lips. He was thirsty. Very thirsty. With his uninjured arm, he reached over to brush stray golden hair from Watson's features.

With a start the doctor grabbed hold, eyes blurry with sleep. With a sob, which almost became a growl the doctor enveloped Sherlock in a crushing embrace.

"You are the cruelest most villainous human creature ever to walk this earth!" John muttered heartily, "If you ever do this to me I will personally shoot you myself."

"I require something to quench my thirst, Watson." Sherlock coughed. He could feel John's breath on his neck. Such heat, such-

"Thank all the Gods you are all right."

Sherlock peeked out from Watson's shoulder to see the lieutenant. His green eyes where serious yet filled with light. Sherlock felt a shudder pass through him.

"A drink."

"Water only," John stated as he withdrew from his embrace. Sherlock's face fell.

"I desire something stronger."

"I am a doctor, your doctor, and you will obey my orders." John exclaimed, passing the man a glass. Sherlock sighed, grimacing as he drained the glass.

"Now will someone explain to what the Devil happened?" Paul questioned, his lips parsed thin. Sherlock frowned, brown eyes glancing around the room.

"Watson, where is my bag? And why am I naked with nothing but a thin sheet?"

"What?"

"I had an ample bag with documents from the ship."

"What ship?" Paul cut in, eyebrows narrowed.

"The bag is in the corner; we had to remove your clothing in order to-" John began but Sherlock shushed him once again.

"I believe you have invaded my privacy doctor." Sherlock quipped pulling the sheet further over his exposed chest. He meant it in jest, but his loins had began to awaken. He could feel the stares and he felt utterly exposed. Something he did not understand.

"Then we leave you to your rest," John muttered, his face flushing slightly. The kiss jumped his thoughts and the realization of just how naked the man was shook him to his very bones. The way the thin sheet hugged his body, the contour of muscle. It was best the leave the room before such outrageous thoughts corrupted his mind.


	10. Chapter 10

**_YAH, I am finally writing again after soooooo long. Sorry bout' the wait. Read on! Sorry for the grammar._**

**_Awhoha_**

The night was cold as the winds tumbled across the waters. It was silent save for the soft ringing of the ships bells, the wind playing it's tune short and sweet. The men huddled tightly together shaking not for the wind but from the sharp icy glare that was boring down upon them. They could feel the anger freezing their skin and none did dare look upon the man cast in shadow. His features unknown, the man stood under the bound sails dressed in black attire, a gun held loosely in his covered grasp.

"I am to understand that Sherlock Holmes, London's consulting detective, came aboard my ship?"

The men were silent, none dared speak in fear for their lives.

"I asked a question."

Several of the men managed a curt nod, their eyes fixated on the ground below.

"He was shot." It was a statement rather than a question. The man breathed out a heavy sigh.

"_Who shot him_?"

The crew shot each other frightened glances, eyes bright with uncertainty. A large fellow, dark bruises forming under an eye, stepped forwards, his hands trembling slightly.

"It was I, sir. They - Holmes and a second man, the doctor John Watson - beat my crew and -"

A shot rang muffled through the night, the crew unmoving as they watched their captain fall dead, blood pooling from the side of his face.

"The game has just gotten exciting," the figure droned, moonlight dancing across his face. His eyes were unforgiving, an endless pool of green. "It would be a shame to end his life so soon. After all...the one to kill Holmes in the end...well..." The man tipped his hat to one side, his black boot pressing against the dead man's cheek, and let a large smile cross his shadowed features.

"_Will be me_."

*O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O*

Sherlock hissed, his tongue clicking loudly as John gingerly finished cleaning the wound on the detective's arm. Almond eyes narrowed, long eyelashes fluttering softly as his skin burned from the pain - and contact of the doctors skilled fingers. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, instantly regretting as pain erupted from his thigh to his head.

"You can never stay still, can you." John chastised blue eyes fixating on the sharp features on his friend. The sunlight bathed the detective in soft morning glow, the bedroom window gracing John with every detail. Sherlock, clad only with heavy bedsheets, shot John a look, but quickly averted his gaze, fingers clutching a small carved horse. A sigh escaped Johns lips as he stood, wiping his hands on a clean cloth, the blood disappearing into the fresh cotton. Sherlock took a shaky breath as Watson closed the door behind him. Cursing his clouded mind, Sherlock trailed his long fingers over the small animal, welcoming the lines and curves under his touch. The doctor had tended his wounds before, but this, this was unlike anything else. Every touch had burned him, reminding him of the kiss on the boat. The way John's mouth had felt pressed to his own, the trembling of his lips. Sherlock suddenly felt out of breath. A single whisper escaped the naked man. _John_.

But the door did not open. The room seemed even smaller, the sunlight teasing the detective with its promise of freedom.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

John Watson was exhausted. He had spent the entire night treating the man in the other room. When Holmes recovered he would beat the man back and blue John promised himself as he poured himself a cup of tea that Mrs. Hudson had kindly left on the table.

"How is he doing?"

John didn't turn to face the other man sitting in the chair opposite. He could feel the worried expression of Paul Jefferson at his back and felt the dislike filling his belly, an unhappy serpent slowly being awoken by an irritating source.

"The wound located on his bicep will heal well, the bullet only grazed him."

"His thigh?"

John gritted his teeth.

"The muscle known as the Rectus Femoris will have some trouble healing...he should be able to walk normally..." John left his words to trail off as he sunk into an empty seat, papers crumpling under his feet.

"Should?"

"I have done all I can."

Silence hung heavy in the room as John sipped his tea, the flavour lost on the doctors tongue.

"The other night, you never explain to me how he got shot. Sherlock rambled about a ship?"

The tone was guarded, danger lurking behind the veil. John turned to look at the other man, eyes hard as ice. Why was this man using Sherlock's first name? Why did it bother him so?

"Holmes and I followed a lead on the cigars which lead us to a ship that imported the goods."

"And you didn't bother informing me?"

John hid his shock and irritation at the anger forming in the mans voice.

"There was no time - the wasn't even a plan. Holmes rushed in like the idiot that he is."

"You shouldn't have let him go in alone."

"He wasn't _alone_."

The glare would have put the sun to shame, but it was broken as the bedroom door opened.

John rose in a rage, the anger that had bottled up finally broke the surface.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP?"

Sherlock blinked lazily, his good arm clutching a thin sheet around his waist. Gods it was almost see through John screamed in his mind, forcing himself to focus.

"I am not going to subjugate myself to a room full of _boredom_."

John rubbed his temples, a heavy headache forming behind his eyes. He walked over to the man who was leaning heavily on his uninjured leg, sweat already forming his brow. John all but dragged his friend to his chair, forcing the detective down and thrusting a cup of hot liquid in his pale hands.

Sherlock raised the tea to his lips, his eyes darting between the two men.

"What is -"

"Don't even speak, Sherlock." Jefferson ordered, his eyes still on John. " The good doctor was telling me how he almost got you killed."

Sherlock opened his lips to object but John shot him a look. Sherlock, his almond eyes slightly glazed watched as John, his friend John narrate the story, somewhat exaggerated he might add, to his flatmate.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

Mary Watson hurried along the cobbled streets of London, her eyes bright with worry. John hadn't come home, hadn't left any word of where he had gone or if he was all right. The knot of worry hastened her steps. She opened the gate to 22B Baker Street knocking sharply on the front door. The doctors wife was greeted by Mrs. Hudson, her complexion pale. The knot tightened.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Quickly my dear, come inside."

Mary, her heels clicking on the wooden floor boards, was lead into the drawing room.

"John!"

Her husband turned around. His blue eyes were angry, his moustache untidy his lips pressed into a thin line. Mary looked around, took in the handsome man standing opposite, hands clenched expression furious. She gasped as she saw the detective, sitting almost naked covered by a thin sheet, tea paused halfway between his lips.

"Mary-" John spluttered

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock slipped a grin, eyes flicking towards Jefferson whose expression had calmed in font of the lady.

"I..."

"You are needed at home, John. I have been worried sick." Mary felt her stomach ache when she saw the look John gave his friend. Mary eyed Sherlock with a hint of contempt. No matter how hard she tried John was always running, chasing the detective for something she couldn't never quite understand.

"The man is wounded Mary, he is in need of my assistance."

"No need to fret, old friend." Sherlock coughed out. "I have the old badger to help me for the remainder of the day. Go home and tend to your married escapade."

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

John sat silent in the carriage ride home. Mary sat beside him, her arm entwined in the crook of his arm. Her perfume was causing the doctors nose to tingle unpleasantly. His wife squeezed his arm affectionately her painted lips smiling up at him. The doctor didn't really feel the need to respond, but gave her a small squeeze to reassure her.

"Is Mr. Holmes the reason you didn't come home last night, or the night previous?" Mary asked, trying to keep her voice neutral.

"Darling, yes, I am sorry. Holmes was shot -"

"Shot?"

"It's a case we're working on-"

"You promised you were done with that life, John! You promised me!"

John sighed brushing strawberry blonde hair away from his wife's cheek. The doctor had promised Mary, but he didn't want to give it up, didn't want to leave his friend to such a life...especially now that Paul Jefferson was living in his flat - his _previous_ flat. The way Sherlock was exposed to a man who wanted to court him. His friend was not safe...

"I did, my sweetheart, this is the last one-"

"You have a family to care for, John! I don't want you putting yourself in danger. or you getting hurt or worse..." Mary clung to John, the doctor turning to fully face her.

"Family?"

Mary smiled timidly up at the surprised blue eyed man before her, golden hair shining in the sunlight. The cobblestones clicked under the horses hooves as John let the shock and delight flow through him.

"You are going to be a father."


	11. Chapter 11

Colours are a curious thing. Sharp hues of scarlet and citrine moulded to bright green that seemed to blend to a rich peacock blue. Every so often the feathers ruffled creating a moving rainbow of iridescence. A beady eye blinked down lazily as fingers stroked the silken plumage. The parrot arched its head, allowing the man to stroke under is beak.

Smoke puffed deftly out from the corners of a thoughtful pout, lips gently playing with the end of the pipe. Sherlock Holmes sat gingerly looking out the window towards the cobbled roads. His thigh ached dully, the effects of the morphine finally kicking into his bloodstream. The fresh bandages that the doctor had wrapped in the early morning had began to seep blood through the cotton, bringing forth the notion of an itch. Sherlock hummed an incoherent tune tapping his fingers against his pipe as the parrot squawked along.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock paused as Mrs. Hudson placed a fresh cup of tea down on the window sill, her tidy hair pushed back into a blond bun. Sherlock rolled his eyes blowing an extra large ring of smoke.

"_Nanny_..." Sherlock droned.

Mrs. Hudson tutted worriedly as she cleaned up the mess surrounding the consulting detective. Half folded papers, quills, empty bottles and tufts of feathers littered the wooden floors.

"You really aught to get that leg looked after Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson quipped glancing at Sherlock's exposed leg. Sherlock ignored her, pulling the sheep fur blanket closer around him, its softness offering some comfort. The parrot protested, flapping away from Sherlock's shoulder finding refuge among the various plants.

"You frightened off the bird, you foul women," Sherlock muttered under his breath, his eyes following the woman's movements with disinterest. Mrs. Hudson promptly ignored the man, briskly forming a path of cleanliness in her wake. Sherlock wondered by she ever bothered. Within minutes the drawing room was spotless. A horrified expression crossed Sherlock's face as he sat powerless to do anything.

Without waiting for a response Mrs. Hudson quickly left the room, leaving the detective to angrily puff smoke at the window.

_Horse - Cleveland Bay standing around 16 hands. Carrying a freight of cargo - fresh cheeses to the store front north. Cheese - formed by coagtulaiton of milk. Caerphilly: crumbly derived from cow milk, fat content fourty-eight percent, mild taste with a mix of tang. Swaledale: fat hard cheese. Lancashire: twelve to twenty-four month mature period, nutty taste. Bowland: mixed with apple, sultana and cinnamon. Tasty. Good with scones._

Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted as the door opened, bringing in the sweet taste of fresh air.

"I guess I don't have to ask how you are doing," Paul Jefferson smiled as Sherlock answered with a fleeting grin.

"Peachy, old badger."

"Shall I?" the ex lieutenant gestured to the spoiled cotton. Sherlock puffed and pulled the blanket tighter. Paul smiled making his way to the detectives side. Kneeling down, Jefferson began to unwrap the bandages, fingers ghosting the detectives thigh. Sherlock's eyes watched as the bandages exposed the deep wound, the thick black stitches keeping flesh together. It was not a thing of beauty. The skin was bruised blackish blue with hints of yellow. Blood seeped in droplets of scarlet.

The almond eyes crinkled in discomfort as Jefferson began administering medicinal solutions, the skin bubbling. Sherlock hissed, smoke rings increasing in clouds.

"Finished." Jefferson tugged the last knot, letting his hand rest upon the other man's knee. Sherlock felt his skin prickle, the heat somehow welcoming.

"Have you had anything to eat? You look too pale..."

"I got shot."

"You need to consume something-"

"Bah. Nourishment is for those who-"

"Which is why you need to eat." Jefferson stood and disappeared, returning with a plate of Mrs. Hudon's cooking. Sherlock crinkled his nose, reluctantly accepting the bread and soup.

"You, old goat, are such a ninny. Cheese next time - I have a sudden urge for Red Leicester."

Jefferson smiled taking away the empty plate that had been magically wolfed down. Sherlock failed to observe the heated gaze of the green orbs as he continued his watch across the streets.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

John held Mary's hand, his other running over his wife's naked belly. They lay wrapped in sheets enjoying the silence of one another. He found himself marvelling at the life that was growing, wondering if it would be a son or daughter. The doctor rested his eyes, relaxing as thin fingers combed through his golden hair.

"It will be nice having the pitter patter of little feet running around this house," Mary whispered, tiredness slowly taking hold. John muttered in agreement.

"Do you think we should ask Holmes if he wants to be a god father?" John questioned, finger trailing. There was a pregnant pause.

"John, I don't think-"

"You don't agree?"

"I don't think involving Mr. Holmes would be a wise decision."

"I think it would do him some good."

"He deals with dangerous criminals - people that I don't even want to think about." Mary sat up, her strawberry blonde hair spilling over her bare shoulders. John took a breath, letting the matter drop. For now.

"Sweethart?"

"Would love some," Mary smiled, the tension forgotten. John retreated from his wife's side, heading for the pantry. He slipped back carrying two steaming drinks and a few baked delicacies. Mary giggled, carefully pulling her husband back into bed.

John grinned enjoying the moment. The light from the evening sun lit up the burgundy shadows of her hair, a golden halo dazzling with fire. It was a sharp contrast with Sherlock's dark curls. The way the light hit brought forth the gold hidden in the brown. The way his almond eyes seemed to pierce through all that he curve of his sharp jaw, his naked chest heaving, his thigh quivering as John threaded the needle -

John blinked. He mentality punched himself, hating how he fantasized of Sherlock, as his wife, his beautiful pregnant wife sat blissfully naked beside him. Why was he recalling such thoughts of the previous night? John forced a smile at Mary, as she grinned, reaching for the last baked good.

*o.o.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

Days had pasted in excitement. John felt his feet fly across the streets, his heart lighter with each bound. He grabbed a notebook, a special gift that had caught his gaze. The intricate design carved into the fine leather showed the dedication of the artisan. John felt a foolish grin grow as he imagined the expression. Sherlock loved collecting notebooks, books for that matter.

"Pardon me," John apologized to the man he bumped into. A gruff response was given but the doctor had already departed.

He wanted to share the announcement to Sherlock. He wanted his good friend to be the god father of his child. Mary had been very adamant that the detective have nothing to do with the baby, but John had fought hard, with Mary finally relenting.

John felt his stomach dance. Would Sherlock be pleased? What words would be spoken?

He found himself staring in front of the large numbers. 221B. With a radiant smile John pushed opened the door, all but bounding up the stairs. He tipped his hat at Mrs. Hudson, who responded with a slight grin.

"Good Afternoon, Dr. Watson."

"You look absolutely lovely today, Mrs. Hudson."

"Dr. Watson?"

The man just laughed, taking the stairs two at a time. His heart felt light. He was going to be a father!

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

Sherlock groaned. His long fingers flexed over the strings - the material digging into his fingertips. His power over the violin seemed to tremble with effort. Unable to focus. How utterly pathetic.

"_Cocaine_!" Sherlock roared throwing his bow to the ground, but took care to rest the instrument in his lap. The door burst open at that exact moment revealing a delighted doctor who's expression immediately grew firm.

"What the _bloody hell_ are you _doing_?"

The darker haired man was dressed in a thin robe (somewhat scandalously John remarked to himself), hair frantic and wild. His almond orbs focused on John before fluttering closed in annoyance. His locks were decorated in feathers, kohl smeared across his lashes.

"Cocaine!" Sherlock hissed, clutching his violin to his chest. "Thoughts - hundreds of thoughts swarming like insects - I need to focus!"

"Are you on morphine? What was the dosage?" John dropped to Sherlock's side, checking him over.

"Buzzing. Like _bees_, John."

"Sherlock, how much morphine did you take?"

The detective gave a wistful wave, eyes darting across his friends features.

"You have news."

"What?"

"Spit it out. Your positivity is tormenting. Well? What's gotten you so excited?"

"I am sure it can wait."

"No."

"Let's take a look at the injuries then, shall we?"

"My _dear_ doctor, you all but danced through those doors, an idiotic grin plastered forth. You have something hidden in your pockets, dressed in one of your best coats - one that I might add, I won in a card game -"

"What? I thought you purchased it at -" John started, sparring Sherlock a look.

"And you hardly ever wear that coat, except on special occasions."

John sighed. He didn't respond, simply pulled the side of the robe (trying not to stare at all the bare flesh, those hip bones and firm muscle), exposing the wound. It was clean, the thick dark stitches had held well.

Sherlock meanwhile had fallen silent, his chest rising and falling. He was suddenly very aware of how close John was, the touch against his thigh. Pain rippled through him, the morphine rising to conquer the sensation, but it was starting to fade. How inconvenient. It became very difficult to breath. He hated this...emotion...this feeling of being bottled, his voice crushed without release. He detested the way his heart drummed in want for the man kneeling before him.

It was the drug. It was the pain. It was the inability to move from his flat over the past few days. It was the treacherous little voice echoing in his mind.

Sherlock reached forwards. His fingers found John's jaw, ignoring the look of shock and surprise.

Without a thought, Sherlock pressed a kiss against the doctors lips. Cool, moist and sinfully satisfying. The little voice cackled in glee.


	12. Chapter 12

Cool, moist and sinfully satisfying. The little voice cackled in glee.

* o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

The first thought was, well, there was no _thought_. All sense had been suspended as soon as those arrogant lips pressed against his own. He felt the fingers - gentle yet strong - grip the sides of his jaw. His mouth opened in shock. All rational thought seemed to vanish from his thoughts as desire blossomed in his chest as Sherlock's tongue snuck though. It tasted of cheese and apples, with hints of cinnamon. John tilted forwards, a deep rumble escaping. It felt..._beautiful_.

John urged Sherlock back slightly, gaining advantage of height. He slipped a hand in the colourful head of ebony curls, marvelling in the softness. Threading his fingers, he pulled the other's head back, allowing his own exploration. The doctor smirked at the hitch in his friends voice, the murmur of need that whimpered from that throat. Breathless they pulled back, eyes boring into one another.

"That was..."

"Sherlock-"

"Satisfactory." Sherlock murmured, heart hammering frantically. Every nerve sparked.

John chuckled.

"Extraordinary..." Sherlock whispered, lips already seeking. John moaned, spare hand wrapping behind the detectives nape. He felt Sherlock shiver. It was wrong. It was devious. It was perfect.

The blonde felt the rush of blood to his trousers. He pulled back, gaze taking in the muscled form clad only in royal purple hemmed with gold, and boldly ran a thumb across his friends chest. His wrist was immediately caught in a strong grasp.

"I - I've never..." Sherlock managed, gaze fixated on his doctor. His John. The other could hardly hide the astonishment, but it was quickly replaced with a hunger that shook Sherlock's very foundation.

The idea of Sherlock never indulging in intimate acts with another human being was more then the good doctor could bare. He seared a kiss on that haughty mouth, his lips trailing down along the slightly stubbled jaw. Sherlock winced as he shifted, his injury protesting, but he promptly ignored it as John's tongue nipped at his nipple. The sensation was...arousing. Frightfully so.

"I seem to be - _aroused_..." Sherlock muttered, the word almost foreign on his tongue. He could feel the painful throbbing between his legs and noted that John seemed to be in the same situation.

"_Am I intruding_?"

Sherlock coolly tilted his head at the intruder, trying to force the observation of John who had stiffened, face instantly thrown into an emotional flux of shock, fear and shame, into the back of his mind. Sherlock ignored the sickening feeling writhing in his gut as John broke from his start, leaping back to his feet.

"_Paul_," Sherlock stated blandly, the violin mercifully concealing his softening member. Thankfully Jon's back was turned, his own erection quickly receding.

"Sherlock. Dr. Watson." Green eyes surveyed the two men, the pinkness of his flatmates cheekbones and the heavy breathing of the doctor. "I have a lead on the case."

Sherlock nodded curtly, fingers trembling as he gingerly shifted in his seat. He blamed the morphine.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

"By adding a certain amount of hydrochloric acid to pure gold, there is no change in the metal, but when you add nitric acid the chemical mixture will turn yellow, the gold will start dissolving. The nitric acid is oxidizing the surface, which allows the chloride to react to form a complex form which dissolves in the solution. This can then be placed on shelves - stored and unnoticed by those common enough not to realize the value - which can allow the gold to be returned to metal with the proper reducing agent. _Facinating_. The dissolved gold becomes chloeoauric acid - solidified. By adding the solution, the gold will become a powder, one has to melt it down to get the shine of common gold. It's brilliant..." Sherlock grinned, his hands steepled under his chin, eyes shining like molten chocolate. "The powdered gold is being smuggled in the cigars!"

"And you know this how?" John scoffed, trying to follow his friends erratic speech. Sherlock pointed to the cigar held in Jefferson's fingers.

"Jefferson, would you be so kind as to dissect the Claro?"

"Where did you get that?" The question was ignored as Paul unwrapped the cigar, its contents containing a dark yellow-brown powder.

"Remarkable," Sherlock muttered. He leaned in his chair, lips pressed in a thin line. "The smugglers are using the stolen gold and transporting it in cigars. But why cigars? The amount is paltry...unless the cigars are meant as a means of communication...promising the larger prize. Displaying the means how the gold can be transformed."

"The Claro brand connects those involved, seeing as our criminals are all linked. Almost like a secret handshake or signature item." Jefferson added.

"Je sues d'accord." Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, ignoring the falling feathers that gathered in his lap (thankfully now covered in an appropriate blanket). "They were killed with the same Claro that was being used to smuggle the gold - a message was sent to those involved. Maybe someone got greedy..."

"Those men, those secretaries - they were somehow involved with the smuggling." John managed to get in a word. He rather disliked how the detective and the ex-lieutenant conversed, almost in their own world. _I kissed him, I was the one who ignited such lewd moans._ John allowed himself a private grin at the thought. _I fathom you have never even tasted such sweetness, Mr. Jefferson_.

"They had access to the security and documents of the Bank, even if it was minor; but clever, no one looks at the small fish. They could steal from under the Bank's noses. But they got greedy - three married and one engaged? They must have been in need of some income. But murder? Why murder?" Sherlock ranted.

"Perhaps the person in charge hates having what he desires most, being taken from him."

Paul commented, the last words laced with a frosty undertone. John grimaced as bouts of anger drew around him.

"Damn being confined to this horrifying room - the air is thick with boredom; there are murderers and smugglers to be apprehended!" Sherlock shouted in anger.

"Another week, Holmes and then you may - carefully - return to the case." John felt the intense brown orbs turn in his direction. He noticed the small blush forming around the detectives cheeks, the reddening of the tips of his ears, and found himself enjoying the attention, even if it was mostly anger.

"I am to assume you are still interested in this adventure?" Sherlock muttered to the doctor. His heart fluttered as those sky blue eyes drank him in. He could lose himself in that brightness. But then the fleeting memory of John's reaction jarred him back into reality. John. Mary. _Married_. Of course John would react in such a predictable manner. Sherlock felt a wave of nausea momentarily take over.

"I am sure Mrs. Watson would disagree." Paul cut in. " During the previous meeting she was quite firm in her view."

Oh. Mary. The baby. John felt his stomach drop. How had he forgotten? He glanced at Sherlock, who was suddenly very taken by the feathers in his lap.

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

Timing was everything. He learnt that from a young age but he was starting to become impatient. They were starting to get close, the game was amusing but the Doctor...he was starting to become irritating. The plans, oh what grand plans they were, were starting to become complicated. This man, John Watson, was starting to become a problem. He wanted nothing more than to feel the doctors blood coarse down his hands.

Paul Jefferson watched carefully, committing to memory, the fleeting emotions that so plainly sailed across the other man's face. He hid his pleasure deep down, locked away his satisfaction. His time would come. His prize was too great. The prize of the great Sherlock Holmes, a vast sea in need of concurring.

When he had witnessed the Doctor pressed over top the detective, Paul's blood had run cold. They were close, so close to finishing this game of theirs. He could not allow such a whimsical man to interfere.

"During the previous meeting she was quite firm in her view. Why only this morning I saw her on her way out and heard the good news. Surely that is enough to stay from danger, is it not Dr. Watson?"

"News?" Sherlock questioned, still deeply concerned for the feathers in his lap.

"Oh did the good Doctor not say?" Jefferson spoke, cutting off any response from the other man, "He is to be a father!"

The room fell heavy into silence. John Watson felt hollow as no words seemed to form as he watched the consulting detective peer at him with a bored curiosity as the feathers where casually discarded to the ground.

"I believe congratulations are in order, then my dear doctor. Give my best to Mary."

"Holmes -"

"I don't know much about marriage other than it is a pointless waste of time, but I do know that your life is too precious to be risked on such affairs. You are to return to Mary and raise this child away from such crime."

"Sherlock!" John managed, but it sounded weak even to his own ears. He needed to be _here_. To be with _Sherlock_. "I-"

"Sherlock is correct, Dr. Watson. Now that you are to be a father, such dealings will only put you and your family in harms way. Please leave all future matters behind you."

*o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o*

_Emotions compromise thought_ Sherlock chanted silently, eyes weary and void. _A father. John Watson. How...common._ Moments ago they were locked in something so passionate, so vibrant that time seemed to stand still. But how fleeting a moment of bliss can be, replaced by a vacant emotion. Emotion. An affective state of conscious in which a variety of feelings are experienced. How unnecessary. How troublesome.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?"

"Quite. I do require some peace and quiet if you will. Please escort Dr. Watson out will you?"

Jefferson allowed glee to give him a simple thrill of pleasure as he nodded to the Doctor, who had, to his satisfaction, seemed rather unwell.

"No."

_"No?"_

"Mr. Jefferson, if you please, I would like to talk to Mr. Holmes, privately."

"What need-"

"**Mr. Jefferson!**" John shouted, lips quivering slightly in suppressed rage.

Paul felt his palms twitch with murderous intent but Sherlock clicked his tongue, breaking the sinister trance.

"You have three minutes." Sherlock murmured. "Then you will escorted out of the house, by force if necessary."

"Three minutes then," Paul echoed, his footsteps taking him out of the room.

John took in a shaky breath. He didn't know what to say, but he felt he needed to say something, anything.

"How far along?"

"Pardon?"

"How far along is the pregnancy?"

John gazed at the expressionless face, those soft yet hard lips which had murmured such sensuous sounds.

"A few months."

"You now come to the portion of life that makes you a father. Sentimental attachments, extravagant expenses, oh and not to mention the -"

"Be quiet, Sherlock."

John found himself in front of the detective, not trusting his writhing emotions. Sherlock was averting his gaze his cheeks taking on a pink glow.

"I want you."

"I fail to understand..."

"I want you in my life. I cannot imagine one without -"

"You have a child to think about, John." Sherlock hissed, looking up into pleading blue eyes. Eyes that begged forgiveness, told of pleasures that were yet to be experienced.

Without thinking, without holding back, John leaned forward and kissed the man beneath him. Tasted the fading hints of cinnamon and apple. And then pulled away.

"I swear it to you on all I hold dear, Sherlock Holmes. I will never let you go."

Silence hung thick around them, breathes shallow and erratic.

"Good day Doctor Watson," Sherlock whispered as Paul Jefferson pushed open the doors.


End file.
